


Life (I Can't Foresee)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [45]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Not Quite A Baby Fic, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-06-25 15:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: Fareeha’s heart is racing again, but not in anxiety this time, and she stands to kiss Angela only to be slightly shocked when her smaller wife hugs her so hard she is lifted off the ground for a few seconds.  This is perfect, and she need not have worried at all, she thinks, as she finally brings her lips to Angela’s.  It is perfect and really, she did not need to worry or stall by looking at more baby pictures—cute as they were—because they arereadyfor this, to have a child, are going to be mothers, soon.Or,Fareeha and Angela both want to be parents—but struggle far more to reconcile their different expectations for their future as they attempt to come to an agreement as tohowthat will happen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [binarylazarus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/binarylazarus/gifts).



> first--thank u to emilia for getting me to finish this fic since ive literally had it plotted out since 2016. wrow
> 
> second--this is set a few yrs in the future in plighted hands verse. if u dont wanna read all like. 200k words preceding this. just know that angela is trans and fareeha and ana have a complicated, but increasingly positive relationship
> 
> third--this is chapter one of sixteen. or the first 3k of 50k or so. im gonna be updating once a week on friday for four months. its p much guaranteed bc i am releasing chapters here a week behind when theyre betad and emilia reads them

For the first four and a half months after their wedding, Fareeha feels almost as if she is floating through married life with Angela—not in the bad sort of way, where she feels detached from herself, as if her life were being lived by some other woman with her face, but in a decidedly _good_ way, with everything going so smoothly that she can scarcely believe that this is their life; neither of them have ever been so lucky, so happy, so content.  Even their work seems charmed by the domestic bliss, with few complications arising in the field, and even fewer on base or in the operating theater.  Married life agrees with the both of them, and although very little at all about their lives is changed by the fact that they are now wives, even their respective surnames staying the same, the knowledge itself that they are married now, that they have dedicated themselves to each other _legally_ as well as romantically and practically, is enough to, temporarily, make even the most mundane of moments with one another seem special.

Like so many other situations, their peace is shattered by an assumption.

(Later, Fareeha will argue that the both of them have jobs in which assuming is, in fact, vitally important, and that it is not inherently wrong to _assume_ things—as both of them did.  When she hears the crack of a sniper rifle unexpectedly, she _assumes_ it is an enemy, and ducks.)

Although recently Fareeha has found her relationship with her mother—and ability to rely upon her mother for _motherly_ things, as opposed to simply tactical support on the field—quite improved, particularly because Ana was able to give her some rather sound advice on the morning of her wedding day which, Fareeha might even actually admit if pressed, has changed the way she views _most_ of the relationships in her life, and not only her marriage, there are some things that Ana could not _possibly_ have warned Fareeha about, on account of never having been herself married.  For example, Ana could not have told her how easily familiarity slips into assumption, how subtly one shifts from subconsciously observing a pattern in their partner’s life, and being able to predict it, to thinking that because one knows what their partner will do and when, they know _why_ , as well.  Perhaps not all assumptions are bad ones, or ill-intentioned, but it is a dangerous thing to assume that one knows another’s mind.

(Later, Angela will tell her that her example is one of a deduction based upon prior experience, and not an assumption—her implication, unspoken, that one is reasonable, and another is bad scientific practice.  Fareeha will tell her that incorrect deductions are often labelled assumptions as a means of dismissal, and that there is often reasoning, if subconscious or unspoken, behind assumptions, and, in any case, the instinctive response she mentioned was far closer to an assumption in that regard than it is to a _deduction_ , which is implied to have been rather carefully thought through, and derives from general knowledge to reach a specific conclusion, which is not at all what _ducking_ is.)

When Fareeha began assuming so much about her wife—and when Angela began to do the same—she cannot say.  It was curiosity, more than anything, which drew her to her wife in the first place, a nagging desire to understand what drove her, how she could rationalize the contradictions in her life, as a peace activist and combat medic, a person who preaches compassion but ~~was~~ ~~is~~ _can be_ incredibly emotionally closed off, a woman who fears nothing more than the death of those she loves, but is close only to soldiers.  She was so, so curious when she and Angela met—and now, she finds herself assuming, not because she does not _want_ to understand her wife, but because she wants so badly to that, sometimes, she fills in blanks she ought not to.  Where once there were questions, she now assumes, because asking can be painful, because _answering_ can be, because her thoughts about love are so tied to intimate _knowing_ , to innate understanding, that she fears asking is a failure.  What sort of wife does not know the woman she married?

(Later, Fareeha will be angry that Angela tries to tie even unrelated things back to science, to rationality, to things that can be observed, quantified, and done _one right way_ , even if, deep down, she knows that her wife only does so because the alternative—a world she cannot control, cannot predict, cannot follow proper procedure in—frightens her, makes her feel powerless in the face of a cruelly unpredictable universe, and at the same time, two rooms away, Angela will be angry that when she argues with Fareeha it must always be in English, for no matter how good she is at speaking it, it will always be her _third_ language, and one that her wife has known since birth, and one she can use so well that Angela feels as if their arguments will never be fair ones, because she is always fighting just to keep up, let alone to get her point across, and finds herself derailed by saying _deduction_ when she meant _conclusion._ Even later, they will, both of them, realize that the things which frustrate them about one another are not things which are theirs to change, and that there are things to be loved about them, too—the way in which Angela’s same fears about losing control have driven her, ultimately, to help others, or the way Fareeha uses that same skill with language to comfort, to inspire, to lead.  Eventually, the two of them might even discuss the issues at hand.)

But Fareeha does not even realize, yet, that she is assuming anything at all, that either of them are, thinks nothing of the myriad of little leaps in understanding she makes over the course of a single conversation.

Here is an assumption: her wife has pictures, somewhere, that survived the Omnic Crisis, or holograms, or video, of herself as a child, and will be willing to share them with Fareeha if only she asks.  It is not an incorrect assumption, and so when Angela agrees, she does not think much of it, even when she notes the discomfort with which Angela observes how _masculine_ her manner of dress was, how her thumb moves quickly to obscure the neat writing at the corner of one image that Fareeha read—she is not fluent in German, but does not need to be to know it said _Our son,_ followed by a name which she has never called her wife, one she knew existed but has never seen or heard. 

Here is an assumption: her wife was an adorable child.  Even as Angela frets over the fact that her parents put her in a yarmulke for a holiday photo, and wanted her to play sports— _Can you imagine me playing football?_ she asks, and Fareeha, truthfully, cannot—she focuses not on her wife’s words, but on just how large her eyes were, how silly her smile with missing teeth was, how soft and wispy her curly hair looked.

(Will their future child have curly hair?  Privately, Fareeha hopes so—although she inherited straight hair from her father, she knows for a fact that her mother’s hair, when not covered or relaxed or otherwise carefully restrained, is quite unruly, and so she thinks her chances are good.)

Here is an assumption: nothing has changed since the two of them discussed having a child of their own, someday.  This Fareeha does know, from the way Angela’s hand tightens around hers when they see small children in public, from the reluctance with which her wife relinquished a baby the two of them saved in a combat zone back to their surviving relatives, from the way her eyes softened when Ana pulled out Fareeha’s own childhood photos.

Here is an assumption: even if Angela is slightly uncomfortable sharing images of herself prior to transitioning with even Fareeha, the conversation _itself_ is not an uncomfortable one, for her, and if it were she would speak up, would know that Fareeha would stop in an instant rather than causing her any pain.  Building boundaries is something they have both become better at, as much for one another’s sake as their own, and although Angela would say something if this conversation were making her upset, it is not.  In fact, she becomes more relaxed as time goes on, sighing happily and leaning into Fareeha, who chose her words carefully when saying that Angela was a _pretty girl_ , a phrase with decidedly feminine connotations, rather than the slightly more neutral _cute child_.

(It is the truth—Angela was undoubtedly _pretty_ , even then, already possessing the features that would make her beautiful now, even if Fareeha rather doubts that most people would have remarked upon them to her at the time.  Even in cleats and shin guards, muddy and scraped from a game which, she informs Fareeha, _we won, no thanks to my involvement_ , she had the genderless figure of all young children, and the thick eyelashes and long hair that one typically associates with young girls.  She wonders how those pretty features would balance with her own, adds to _curly hair_ Angela’s brow and dimples and her own dark brown eyes and cheekbones.  If they have a son, Fareeha hopes he does not mind having a more-than-slightly androgynous appearance, as it seems a likely outcome.)

Here is an assumption: now is a good time to be having this sort of conversation.  It is a Thursday evening, and neither of them is scheduled for a mission for at least another week, having only just returned from a long post-disaster aid deployment two days earlier.  Barring an emergency, neither of them will be needed, and they are sufficiently rested—and far enough out from their next mission—such that they have relatively clear heads.

Here is an assumption: it is the right time in their lives—and their relationship—for this conversation.  The two of them have been married for a few months now, and with Angela’s 40th birthday coming and passing, and her own 36th quickly approaching, Fareeha has been, increasingly, thinking about the future, and imagining what the next phase in their lives will look like.  Although they certainly have access to the best medical technology and expertise available, Angela being who she is, Fareeha does not particularly _want_ to be an older mother.  Ideally, she would like to be done with being pregnant before she turns 40, and starting now seems prudent, just in case something goes wrong.

(Her mother would seem to agree, and has been dropping increasingly strong hints that _sometimes these things take time, you wouldn’t want to start too late_ and _two of my sisters are great-grandmothers already_ and even _I’d like to meet my grandchildren before I die again_.  The last point notwithstanding, Fareeha does understand some of her mother’s worries.  She does not have as much contact with her extended family as her mother does, but even she has begun to feel the pressure from her relatives, both in the form of the ever-increasing number of birth announcements from her myriad of cousins and well-intentioned, if not entirely medically feasible, suggestions from an aunt or two that even if she does have a wife, _doctors can do anything these days!_ and she _shouldn’t give up on a baby—even_ Ana _had you!_    Thankful as she is that her aunts have come around to her attraction to women, and even knowing that such talk is their way of showing support, Fareeha really would like to be able to say _We’re trying_ —or, better, _I’m pregnant_ —and never have to have those particular conversations again.)

Here is an assumption: Angela will react positively when she broaches the subject.

She opens her mouth to begin the conversation several times, but stops each time, sometimes falling silent, and other times backtracking awkwardly to another question.  It is silly to worry, Fareeha knows—they have already _agreed_ to have a child, this is not a question of _if_ but _when_ , and now is a very good time to start trying—but still, she cannot help but be anxious, hesitates up until the very moment Angela stands to put the small box of photographs and other items away.

“We’re ready, aren’t we?” she asks, and wishes immediately she had said something more eloquent, more romantic, less _vague._ “I mean, for a child.”

When she says it, Angela freezes—not long, but just long enough for Fareeha’s pulse to shoot up again, heart racing in anxiety—before a smile breaks across her face.  “Yes,” says she, quietly at first, and then again with for more conviction, “Yes, yes, _yes_!”

Fareeha’s heart is racing again, but not in anxiety this time, and she stands to kiss Angela only to be slightly shocked when her smaller wife hugs her so hard she is lifted off the ground for a few seconds.  This is perfect, and she need not have worried at all, she thinks, as she finally brings her lips to Angela’s.  It is _perfect_ and really, she did not need to worry or stall by looking at more baby pictures—cute as they were—because they are _ready_ for this, to have a child, are going to be mothers, soon.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Angela says, when they break the kiss for air.  “I’ve been trying to mention it for at least the last month—that’s what dinner three weeks ago was supposed to be about, before, well—”

“Before you got distracted and burned it?” Fareeha asks, laughing.

“You’re no stellar cook yourself!” Angela retorts, before adding, “And anyway, the reason I was distracted was that I got a call back from one of the adoption agencies I contacted and—”

“What?”  Fareeha takes a half step back.

_Adoption?_

“—I know,” Angela continues on, misunderstanding Fareeha’s confusion, why she is upset, and trying to close the gap between them, “I should’ve waited to start contacting them with you, but I was worried they wouldn’t consider us because of our jobs and different citizenship and, you know,” she skirts around the topic of them both being women, as always, but Fareeha hardly even notices it, this time, too focused on other things, “And she told us we weren’t eligible, so actually I’ve not made much headway, and you haven’t missed anything, in fact—”

“No,” Fareeha interrupts, for the third time—and, really, she does not like to, but when Angela is emotional she rambles and if Fareeha decided _not_ to interrupt they could be here for another five minutes before she points out the other, bigger concern, “I meant— _adoption?_ I thought we were, you know, going to have a child?”

“Right,” Angela agrees, clearly confused.  “That’s why I started looking into agencies who might be willing to take us on despite the… complicated situation.  How did you think we were going to have a baby?”

“You told me that you’d frozen sperm,” Fareeha cannot remember the context of the conversation, now, because it was something mentioned in passing years before, when _both_ of them were stuck in the medbay after a botched mission, and the painkillers and time have made the memory hazy.

“No!” says Angela immediately, and this time it is her who steps back, a whole step this time.

“You didn’t?”  Fareeha is confused, now, and simultaneously quite sad, mourning the curly-haired child she only just began to imagine.  She could have sworn that Angela mentioned doing it prior to having transitional surgery.

“I did,” Angela says, and there is an edge to her voice that Fareeha realizes that she cannot quite place.  An additional shock—this is an emotion she has never seen from her wife before, is something that in the years they have known each other, have been a couple, there are still parts of Angela she has not seen, could not anticipate, does not know how to react to.  Before she can even begin to consider that, her wife continues, “But that doesn’t mean we’re going to— _no_!”  It is emphatic, the way she says it, leaves no question as to whether Fareeha might persuade her, but Fareeha’s focus is less on Angela’s denial and more on the way her wife will not even put to words what was proposed, as if it is something too terrible to name, the idea of Fareeha being pregnant, the idea of inseminating her.

A part of Fareeha wants to ask what about her being pregnant is so _repugnant_ as to be unnamable, wants to say those words and see how Angela reacts to hearing them voiced—but she knows, also, that nothing will come of asking a question like the one she wants to out of anger, and that she will get a far better answer if she waits, if she collects herself, if she finds a better way to say any of the words currently fighting to escape her mouth.  Although she is confused, is hurt, is shocked, is saddened, is a thousand other things, Fareeha is not angry at Angela, not really, is only reacting that way because it would be an easier emotion to deal with.

For her part, Angela seems to be reacting much the same, facing to the side and taking another few steps away, until they are standing at opposite ends of the very same couch they were pressed so close to one another on just a few minutes earlier—though it feels far longer.

Now, Fareeha wonders what she is thinking, wonders how at the beginning of the evening she was so certain that she knew Angela’s mind.  So many correct assumptions, and yet the most important of all was wrong.

Just when it seems the silence is finally going to break, when Angela is turning back to look at her again, Fareeha’s comm goes off—an emergency signal.

A correct assumption, of a sort, that the silence was broken, if not in the way she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip fareeha. she really thought they covered all their bases but... they did not. bc of course they didnt. their goals may be similar but their worldviews are so essentially different that even in agreement the two of them dont... really see eye to eye... on a lot of things. theyll work it out tho, bc they always do
> 
> also lol double rip fareeha bc let me tell u, i know the pain of a big arab family talking abt _when_ (and not if) u are going to have kids All Too Well


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay switching to angelas pov for this chapter. i wrote this a week ago and felt :? abt it then, but emilia and skitch approved and i dont remember what my qualms were so. its whats going up!

There are 372 stitches in the hem of Angela’s skirt; with nine threads between each stitch, there should be 3,348 threads total, and she tries to count them.  _732,_ she thinks, _733, 734, 735, 736 Did she know that I—,_ she does not think the words, even to herself, tries to focus on counting, _737, 738, 739, 740, 741, Did Ana tell her or, 742 Did she just assume?  Did she think that because I happen to be—_

 _Fuck._ What number was she on?  She keeps getting lost, here, somewhere near the 700s.  Not even a fourth of the way through.  If she could distract herself by _working_ instead—but, no, Fareeha has convinced her, by now, that always doing so is not healthy, in the long term.  Again, from—

 _1_ It does not matter, of course, the counting, is only something to occupy her, mind and body, _2_ as her hands carefully trace the threads and her lips mouth the numbers _3_ —it calms her, or is supposed to; _4_ counting breaths, holding them, has never done much to help with her anxiety, _5_ has only ever _refocused_ it, as she measures each irregularity against a list of symptoms, _6_ wondering if something is _wrong_ , _7_ looking for an explanation besides anxiety as to why she is feeling what she is, _8_ because the physical she can _solve._

( _9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15—_ )

 _16_ What Angela cannot solve is this, _17_ the panic that she feels thinking too hard and for too long about the situation at hand.  _18_ If she can just count all the threads in her vision, _19_ reach somewhere near to 1,674, _20_ then she knows she will have calmed down well enough to actually consider the situation—or, better yet, _21_ have pushed it from her mind, if only for a few minutes.

( _22, 23, 24, 25, 26—_ )

 _27_ Instead, she finds herself stumbling, each time, _28_ mind too caught up in questions, in worries, to make it to her goal.

( _29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36—_ )

 _37_ _Stupid_ , she thinks, and so she feels.  _38_ If there were an emergency— _39_ or, one that required _her_ at least— _40_ she could calm herself in an instant, _41_ could banish her thoughts and focus only on what needed to be done, _42_ could steady her hands enough for surgery before she even started to scrub, _43_ but in a situation like this?  _45_ For something interpersonal, where she has naught to do but wait, _46_ she cannot control her emotions so easily—or at all, truth be told. 

( _47, 48, 49—_ )

 _50_ She never could, not even as a child; even before everything happened, she always struggled with this—this tendency to panic, in situations where asserting her own boundaries means potentially hurting others, to suddenly find herself _overwhelmed,_ colors around her too bright and air not oxygenated enough.  Then, she would hide in her bed, covers pulled over her to hide from sights and smells, and it almost helped, save for the lack of air, suffocating her in the _too hot, too stale, too much_ , area under her comforter.  Now, she finds herself sitting in the bathroom—too bright, but ventilated, boring, all white with no colors and no outside sounds—and thinks she has not come very far since she was a child.

—Children.  _Gopfertami._ That is how she found herself here in the first place, hiding in the bathroom and (not) counting; all the times she and Fareeha have discussed wanting a _child_ , have discussed how, with their schedules it might take a while, and they are of an age where time may soon be of the essence, all that time Fareeha meant a _baby._

(What would they do with a baby, the two of them?  Babies require far more maternity leave than children, far more time spent with careful attention to their every need; which of them would take the time off, after the baby was born?   How would they deal with being away on assignment, furthermore?  Unlike a child, they could not just _explain_ to a baby where they were, could not call them when they were able.  And what of the child’s personality?  What if they hated their baby, or could not understand them well enough to bond?  A child, they could choose, could speak to and know they would _fit_ with their family, that the two of them would be enough for the child, despite their shortcomings, but a baby?  What if the baby was loud, and startled Fareeha, or overwhelmed her?  How could they explain, as the baby grew older, that it was not their child’s fault that when they did certain things, the two of them would react unusually?  Better just to adopt a quiet child, surely.)

Worse, Fareeha meant _their_ baby, because somehow, somewhere along the way, she came to believe that Angela had frozen sperm and would be willing to _father_ their child.  While yes, at nineteen, she had, after considerable pressure and under the threat that she might, one day, live to regret not doing otherwise, elected to preserve her biological material, she has no memory of ever telling Fareeha as much, would not have when the very word ‘fathering’ makes her feel ill.  It is not something she could ever—would ever—do, being the father to a child.

For it would be fathering, in the technical sense, at least to her mind—and to the minds of many others, she is sure.  How would they answer, when their child asked who their other parent was, when their _friends_ asked?  What could they say?  No one who met Angela after her nineteenth birthday—the majority of their friends and coworkers—knows that she is transgender, but if they had a baby, the two of them together, how could that be hidden?  They could lie, perhaps, and say that they found a donor, but if the child looked like her, or, worse, inherited her other traits, it would be painfully obvious who had fathered them. 

There is, too, the fact that Angela does not _want_ a child like herself; she is concerned not only by her _issues,_ by having a child who, like her, is ill-equipped mentally to handle a variety of situations that others endure so easily—something which may well be heritable, though she cannot be certain given that she has _no_ medical history for her parents—but her intelligence.  It was isolating, as a child, to have never had peers within a decade of her, to have been deprived of chances to be social with other children.  Her parents tried to help her overcome it, setting her up with playdates from families at synagogue and forcing her to play football, but nothing quite overcame the gap in understanding; she grew frustrated quickly when having to explain things to other children, and they, however rightly, objected to the fact that she thought herself above them.  What would she do if their baby was like herself?  Would she and Fareeha force them to go to school with children their own age, and risk them growing disenchanted with learning because they lacked the proper stimulation, or would they allow their child to develop at their own pace intellectually, only to isolate them socially?  It is not a choice she wants to make for her child—is not a choice she envies her parents for having made about herself.

(And what would Fareeha think, raising a child like that?  It would not be _normal_ , would surely not be what Fareeha is picturing, when she imagines the two of them with a baby.  Would she feel cheated of the opportunity to have and raise a normal child?  Would she blame Angela for that?  Her own parents never said as much—not to her, at least—but when they pushed her to spend more time with children her own age, to have interests more typical of a child, she wondered what it was like for them, to have tried for a child for over a decade, only to finally have one who never much wanted to _be_ babied.  If she has a child like herself, that fear might be confirmed by her wife’s reaction.)

No, there are too many variables with a baby, is too much uncertainty.  As much as Angela loves Fareeha, as much as she knows she could not help but love anything—anyone—associated with Fareeha (and her improved relationship with Ana has proven as much), she is afraid of the opposite proving true for herself.  It would hardly be fair to bring into the world a baby whom she would dislike, or, worse, like, but still find herself pained by, merely because she associated them with herself.

Given that she could not guarantee that she would love a baby which was related to herself, she hardly thinks it would be worth the risk, worth the _questions_ if she were to be involved in its conception.

(If the child was only Fareeha’s—well, that would be another matter.  She does not doubt her ability to love such a child, but Fareeha does not want that, wants a child who is _theirs._ )

What would Fareeha say if Angela were not trans?  What would she want?  It would not be this, clearly, could not be, and that, too, unsettles Angela, makes her stomach clench in such a way that she worries she might be ill.

She knows, of course, that Fareeha does not love her _because_ she is trans, or _despite_ the fact that she is—but the worry is still there, now, that part of the reason that it was so easy for Fareeha to imagine a future for them was because she _is_ different from Fareeha’s past lovers, in this regard, is someone with whom Fareeha _could_ indulge in her desire to have a child with a partner. 

The thought is not a fair one—it is not even remotely true of Fareeha’s motivations, does not fairly represent the sort of woman her wife is; it was she who proposed, after all, not Fareeha, and she who first mentioned children, when she was still only hoping that the two of them might marry.  If Fareeha planned on this this, surely _she_ would have proposed, would have been the one to bring up children.

But, then, perhaps she was more inclined to agree because Angela is trans, perhaps it _did_ color their interactions without Angela ever knowing it.

It makes her sick to think of it, and even more sick to realize that she is imagining _Fareeha_ thinking that way.  Fareeha is her wife, is the love of her life, is the sort of woman who could never, ever plan something which would hurt her—which would hurt _anyone_.  Fareeha is guileless, through and through; she has no hidden agendas.

Yet now that the thought is there, Angela cannot shake it, cannot stop it bothering her, cannot escape the knowledge that the very fact that Fareeha knows she is trans _has_ shaped this issue, even if neither of them were consciously aware of it at the time.

(If she were cis, they might instead be talking about which of them would carry a child, _if_ Fareeha somehow convinced her that having a baby were a good idea.  It would still be Fareeha, of course, because Angela knows from what she has read of her mother’s postings online, the digital remnants of a life, that it was twelve years of trying before her mother fell pregnant—but that is a conversation that she does not even have the _option_ of having now, because she is the woman she is, and not some other, hypothetical, cis self.)

She needs to breathe, to think, to distract herself with something, anything—she cannot do this, cannot keep thinking about this, with Fareeha and _answers_ so far away, cannot allow it to keep eating at her while she waits to hear if Fareeha will be back tonight, tomorrow, next week.

She counts again, the steadiness required of her hand as she keeps her place on the threads forcing her to stop shaking somewhat, just like she might have to do if she were needed for a surgery.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 6, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73,74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257—_

_—_ And what if, _258_ like her own parents, _259_ she and Fareeha have trouble conceiving?  _260_ They do not have the luxury of time, _261_ of so many tries, not given the limited material they have with which to work.  _262_ What if they try, only to fail, time and again, until they can try no longer?  _263_ Would Fareeha resent her for not having saved _more_ for them to try with?  _264_ Worse, would she see her wife’s sadness, her disappointment, and blame herself? _265_ She cannot imagine a scenario in which it ends well, in which the risk of them trying is worth it, in which the hope of a _baby_ , a baby who might inherit the worst of her, whose existence will necessitate her outing herself, is worth it. _266_ They cannot, she _cannot_ , do this, she knows that now, is more certain than she has ever been, is even more certain than she was before she ever even _considered_ the possibility, because now she has thought of even more reasons why this is a bad idea, why having a child together could break them.

_267—_

—Her hand shakes, and she loses her place again, swears in frustration. 

She knows, now, what she should say, when Fareeha returns, knows what she has to say: that she cannot do this, will not entertain the notion of the two of them having a child together, and she understands if Fareeha does not want to stay with her, knowing this.

For that is a given, if this is something Fareeha wants—needs—to have a baby with her partner, to have her _partner’s_ baby, then it is something Angela cannot give her, and it would not be fair to expect Fareeha to stay with her, would not be right.

It hurts even to think about, but Angela could not deprive Fareeha of the chance of having something she wants, even if she cannot give it herself. 

But how can she say that?  How can she say to Fareeha _If you need this, then I would understand you seeking a divorce, and would not be hurt by it_?  Because she does _not_ understand, not really, could live without a child entirely if Fareeha objected to adopting—but she could see, in Fareeha’s face, a hurt deeper than just shock, just disappointment, could see something nearer to betrayal, to grief, to loss.

It would be unfair of her to want Fareeha to stay, unfair of her to expect Fareeha to sacrifice something so important to her—and yet, Angela still hopes she would, cannot imagine herself, even as she tries to, telling Fareeha to find someone else who would make her happy. 

For who could?

Despite initial hesitance from both of them, despite a mutual fear of becoming reliant on someone else, of being weak, of _dependence_ on another person for happiness, they have allowed themselves to become so enmeshed in one another that it is difficult to imagine that either of them would ever be as happy apart, now, as they have made one another.

Could she sacrifice this, if Fareeha needed something she could not give?

Could Fareeha ask her to?

She knows, already, she could not ask Fareeha to change her mind, if she is set on it, the two of them having a child together, for if Fareeha is as certain as she—it is undoable.

 _Calm down_ , she tells herself.  _Count the threads._

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153—_

_She cannot lose Fareeha._

_—154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276, 277, 278, 279, 280, 281, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 293, 294, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, 305, 306, 307, 308, 309, 310, 311, 312, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317, 318, 319, 320, 321, 322, 323, 324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331, 332, 333, 334, 335, 336, 337, 338, 339, 340, 341, 342, 343, 344, 345, 346, 347, 348, 349, 350, 351, 352, 353, 354, 355, 356, 357, 358, 359, 360, 361, 362, 363, 364, 365, 366, 367, 368, 369, 370, 371, 372, 373, 374, 375, 376, 377, 378, 379, 380, 381, 382, 383, 384, 385, 386, 387, 388, 389, 390, 391, 392, 393, 394, 395, 396, 397, 398, 399, 400, 401, 402, 403, 404, 405, 406, 407, 408, 409, 410, 411, 412, 413, 414, 415, 416, 417, 418, 419, 420, 421, 422, 423, 424, 425, 426, 427, 428, 429, 430, 431, 432, 433, 434, 435, 436, 437, 438, 439, 440, 441, 442, 443, 444, 445, 446, 447, 448, 449, 450, 451, 452, 453, 454, 455, 456, 457, 458, 459, 460, 461, 462, 463, 464, 465, 466, 467, 468, 469, 470, 471, 472, 473, 474, 475, 476, 477, 478, 479, 480, 481, 482, 483, 484, 485, 486, 487, 488, 489, 490, 491, 492, 493, 494, 495, 496, 497, 498, 499, 500, 501, 502, 503, 504, 505, 506, 507, 508, 509, 510, 511, 512, 513, 514, 515, 516, 517, 518, 519, 520, 521, 522, 523, 524, 525, 526, 527, 528, 529, 530, 531, 532, 533, 534, 535, 536, 537, 538, 539, 540, 541, 542, 543, 544—_

No, she will not ask it of Fareeha, will hope Fareeha does not try to ask the same of her.  She is only getting ahead of herself—surely, all this worry will be for naught.  Nothing so drastic could come of it.

_—544, 545, 546, 547, 548, 549, 550, 551, 552, 553, 554, 555, 556, 557, 558, 559, 560, 561, 562, 563, 564, 565, 566, 567, 568, 569, 570, 571, 572, 573, 574, 575, 576, 577, 578, 579, 580, 581, 582, 583, 584, 585, 586, 587, 588, 589, 590, 591, 592, 593…._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some things:   
> \- dont let ur kids skip grades unless u hate them. like maybe one year is okay but four or five is just "haha bitch get fucked." source: at age 19 i suddenly looked around my classroom and realized that all of my students in the (university) class i was teaching were older than me. had to take a fifteen minute break to go have an anxiety fueled meltdown on the balcony. not good or fun to be that "ahead" in life. angela is right abt parents facing a hard decision there but ITS BAD TODD  
> \- angela refers to being the partner whose sperm is involved in conception as 'fathering' a child--its a bit of internalized transphobia on her part. obviously trans moms are moms. however the idea that contributing sperm might be dysphoric for some ppl, such as her, is 100% valid  
> \- also angela is the person who worries about the MOST extreme possible scenario until her brain catches up w her emotions. then she feels like a dumbass. its like that sometimes. dont worry, shes WAY too worked up abt this and like, everything will work out for her and fareeha in the end. shes just having one of those moments where ur worries start spiralling til suddenly something small seems like the end of the world. well, this isnt "small" but shes still overreacting a bit. she will chill out before next chapter w her.  
> \- i actually counted the threads in the skirt i was wearing for this (2976) but then i couldnt use that number bc when i got to the part where she halves it it was. not a good number. rip. BUT ~realism~ i did count. and also her thighs are thicker than mine (rip my twiggy legs) so i guess she WOULD have more threads anyway. theoretically.
> 
> anyway hope u enjoyed, and are having a great weekend


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fareehas relationship w ana is still... complicated. as are her feelings abt All Of This, and herself... and we get into that a bit this chapter

Fareeha is not a perfect woman, this much she knows.  She knows it because her mother told her as much, when she was a teenager—not an insult, but a warning, _you are not so perfect as you think; you will fail, will make a mistake, the soldiers under your command will die, and what, then, will you do?_   She knows it because she _has_ lost people under her command, has made errors in judgement that cost them and civilians their lives, has felt the pain that her mother wished to warn her away from.  She knows it because she has failed, too, to live up to her own ideals, to do the things she said she would, to make the reforms she thought were necessary, because they are not as practical or simple as she believed, because she does not have the time to do so when putting out a thousand other fires, because she is _tired._

Fareeha is tired now, too, as she parks her car at an overlook a few kilometers away from Watchpoint: Gibraltar—she is tired, but not yet ready to go home.

That she made a mistake is beyond doubt—in fact, she has made several in the last day or so.  The first, and the subject of the emergency meeting this evening, was her decision not to stay behind with the small cleanup team on their last mission.  Although no one was critically injured, a breakdown in team communication temporarily jeopardized the safety of several agents who are _her_ responsibility, a part of the strike she is responsible for leading.  Had she been paying more attention to them, to the way in which several of the greener members of their team respond—or refuse to—to orders from Zenyatta, as opposed to thinking about tonight’s _conversation_ , planning it, the situation could have been averted, either by a timely intervention  or her remaining in the field with them for the entirety of the mission.  When they return, she will impress upon them all the gravity of the situation, and apologize to Zenyatta personally.  He is a patient man, and unlikely to have been ruffled by the situation but she still owes him as much, she knows.

The second mistake was her greatest—and one which, admittedly, she does not yet fully grasp, is not sure how to _solve_ —and she is here, now, because of it, wondering where the fault in her reasoning lay, and how she might yet salvage the situation.

The third mistake she is making at this very moment, lighting a cigarette for the first time in more than eighteen months.

Angela is going to _kill_ her when she gets back to their room, if the smell of smoke still clings to her, will give her the hurt and angry and scared look that her wife gets when she takes unnecessary risks, the one that says _How dare you_ and _You should know better_ but also _I do not want to outlive you, too, do not know if I could_ , and she will not yell, will not even scold, but the guilt—the guilt of it will be enough to hurt Fareeha more than words ever could.

But this, too, hurts, this situation she has found herself in.

For all that she does not _want_ to hurt her wife, it is not for Angela that she finally fully quit smoking, is not because she knows how much it worries Angela, the thought of her getting cancer—one of the few things her wife is yet to find a cure for, and therefore something she greatly fears—is not even for the sake of her career, knowing that the long-term impacts of smoking on her lung capacity will make piloting the Raptora more difficult; Fareeha quit for one reason, and one reason only.  One _must_ not smoke while pregnant.  She quit the day she and Angela agreed that they would like a child together, one day.

(It was not as hard as she thought, quitting, not until today.  She _could_ have quit for Angela after all, she thinks now, because really, she only ever smoked while stressed, anyway.  But, then, she was rarely stressed between her engagement and today, and why would she have been, happy as they were?  Today, though, today it was not easy, because suddenly she _was_ stressed again, and angry, and worrying about the future, and if she is not going to have a child after all why on earth should she resist the temptation?  What could the one hurt?)

At this hour of night, with the moon a waning crescent, she cannot see the water crashing against the cliffs beneath her, but she can hear it, when she takes another drag from her cigarette, Cleopatra Blue.

It is her mother’s brand of choice—from when her mother smoked, the Ana Amari Fareeha remembers from before she died and returned a stranger with a familiar face, older and tired and entirely more observant than the woman who wore her long hair loose, got a tattoo, and had a child out of wedlock—and the part of Fareeha that likes poetry far more than most would expect of a soldier thinks that, given the events of tonight, falling into her own mother’s bad habits is symbolic of something.  But maybe it just goes to show that she has learned nothing from her mother’s mistakes.

(Never mind that she _is_ one of her mother’s mistakes—or she was, at conception.  A thought she regrets as soon as she has it: it would be a nice mistake to repeat, right about now.  But it would not, would only make this whole mess worse, and in any case, Fareeha does not want any child of hers to grow up with the uncertainty that comes with knowing one was unplanned, the question of _Would they be happier without me?_ )

Too much time has passed since last she did this, and she almost coughs as she inhales on the next drag, struggles to hold the smoke in her lungs the right way, imagines for a second that she can _feel_ it coating her lungs, the way Angela fears. 

She really should not do this; when the two of them have a child together—for she still cannot bring herself to say _if_ , is still clinging to the knowledge that they agreed, before they ever married that they both want a child, want to be mothers, that even if individually they are perhaps not the best potential parents, their shortcomings are different enough that they can compensate, _will_ do so— _when_ the two of them have a child together, she will not want their time together cut short by a preventable, premature death.

(Not like her mother’s death was, or so she tells herself—that was stupid because Ana _did not die_ , and she suffered unnecessarily for a year thinking that her mother was gone, when that was not at all true, for they were nearer each other geographically speaking than they had been in  years—absolutely not so she can justify her own decision to continue to serve after having given birth, just as her mother did.  No, this would be a death like Angela’s parents, not for a cause, but senseless.  The kind of death from which there is no solace to be found, no words to tell a child and comfort them, no _she died fighting for what she believed in_.  It is entirely to ignominious a death for an Amari.)

Quitting ought to be easy—stubbornness is something Fareeha has in excess.  In the field, it has served her well, and, indeed, it is only stubbornness which brought her to that point.  When she wants things for herself, when she has plans for her future, she does what it takes to achieve them, was willing even to let her relationship with her own mother sour in order to join Overwatch.

That stubbornness will get her nowhere here—never will it remove entirely the desire for a cigarette, on bad days, and it _certainly_ will not solve any disagreement she has with Angela.

For all that Fareeha loves her wife, she cannot deny that Angela might be the only person on the planet more stubborn than herself and Ana—in fact, she appreciates that stubbornness, insofar as it has made Angela the sort of person who, like herself, is very driven achieve her goals, will let nothing and no one stop her.  Fareeha could not be happy with anyone who is _not_ as stubborn as she, who does not also know what it was to want to accomplish something so fervently that it consumes them until the task is completed, who does not also always put all of themselves into each of their efforts.

Usually, they can find a common ground—not compromising with each other in the usual sense, both parties getting half of what they want, but coming to an understanding of why it is they both believe thing things they do, and from there finding what those perspectives have in common before moving forwards, and _both_ being wholly satisfied in the process. 

Here, she cannot imagine that will be possible.

But how did she get here in the first place?  No matter how long she thinks about it, she cannot find it, the gap in their communication, the exchange where, somewhere along the line, they shifted out of sync with one another, their two planned futures branching off so completely.  A part of her wants to ask, now, to stub out the cigarette and make the return back to base, back to their quarters, to demand answers—but she doubts it would do any good.  Likely, Angela is confused as she, just as hurt and lost and wondering when and how their dreams became so different. 

(Also likely: Angela is asleep.  Insomnia has never plagued her as it has Fareeha.)

Even if Angela _does_ know, Fareeha doubts it would help to hear, right now, how they got here, because she is—not angry, but hurt.  Upset.  Not in the right state of mind to be discussing this at the moment, still reeling from the realization that for as well as she feels she knows her wife, they could still find themselves in a situation such as this, and unsure what she feels about Angela’s reaction, unsure of what, even her reaction _was._

That is not a conversation to be having at 03:47.

(Really, it is not a conversation Fareeha wants to have at all—but it is one she knows they need to.  Communication is not the forte of either of them, is something they have always struggled with, together, the desire to internalize their feelings, whether to be strong or to not burden one another, versus the _need_ , very real, to confide in someone, in each other.  It may never come easily, she is beginning to realize.)

What she wants, right now, is not to talk, it is to crawl into bed and to hold her wife—or, perhaps better, be held by her wife—but it is not something she can do, smelling as she surely does of smoke.  That is, after all, why she left base to do this; if she did not care about Athena potentially telling Angela that she was smoking again, then she might have just gone up to one of the central towers to sit and smoke and think.  Dark as it is, the view is hardly better, and the sound of the ocean is much the same. 

 _It was a mistake_ , she thinks, hand moving again to her lips, _coming out here to do this._ She ought to have gone back to her quarters right after the situation in the field was resolved, ought to have—not apologized, but said something, ought not have gone and found the pack of cigarettes she had stowed away for a time like this, ought not to have stowed them away in the first place.

This, especially, she should not be doing—not the avoiding the situation, bad as that is, but the smoking.  _When_ she gets pregnant, it will not do for her to be smoking again, will be bad for not only her future with her child but for her baby’s health.  _When_ , because she is sure that, eventually, it will happen.

Angela still wants a child, that has not changed.  Still wants a child with her.  They were so happy, agreeing to it only a few hours earlier.  Surely they can find a way to make this work.

 _Adoption_.  It is not something Fareeha ever considered, really, not for herself, for while she understands the need for it, it is hardly something that is _necessary_ in their situation, since they can conceive a child, the two of them, and she wants a child that is hers by blood.

(It sounds terrible, she thinks, but it is true, a child by adoption is _different_ than a child by blood, in some ways.  Not inferior, but different, and not suitable to her desires, because a part of what she wants is not only to have a child, but to carry on her family’s legacy, and it will undoubtedly matter to them that hers is a child by blood as well as by law.  Furthermore, she _wants_ to be pregnant—has grown fond, over the years, of the idea of experiencing it, of bonding with her child even before they arrive in the world, of feeling them move inside her and knowing her body can not only take life but _create_ it.  That is something no adoption can accomplish.)

Tomorrow, she will ask Angela why she will not consider having a child of their own—why the thought of having a child _with her_ seemed so unappealing, so shocking, and she will try not to be angry, no matter what the answer is, will hope that Angela does not make that face again, something between revulsion and betrayal.

Just thinking of it makes her stomach turn, and suddenly the cigarette is not so comforting anymore, is instead disgusting, the taste of cheap tobacco coating the inside of her mouth, clinging to her, even after she decides she is done with it.

(Angela’s nose would turn if she smelled it, and Fareeha knows she cannot kiss her wife until after she has brushed her teeth thoroughly, but even then it will be there, the threat of disease, will pass from her mouth to her wife’s.  It is not fair of her to thrust this upon them both, is not right that Angela’s future be put at risk for her own _wanting._ )

She stubs out the cigarette even though it has not yet burned down, and throws the remainder of the pack into the sea.  Later, she will find a way to make it up to Mei, to the water itself, but she cannot bear to have them near her, and cannot risk leaving them somewhere, only to come back to the habit as she has tonight.  It would not do to fall back into the addiction again, would be bad for her, would worry Angela, would be bad for a pregnancy.

 _Disgusting_ , she thinks.

_It’s disgusting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- for more on fareeha & ana and smoking see 'breaks with smoke', also in this series  
> \- fareehas opinions on smoking are more indicative of her desire to quit and not intended to disparage ppl who are addicted  
> \- cancer canonically still exists in ovw (see anas comic 'legacy'), and we hear angela berating jesse for smoking in game. needless to say she wouldnt approve if fareeha did the same  
> \- mentions of arab families prioritizing bio kids over adopted ones... in my experience w my family & my friends families, sad but true. its something fareeha will have to contend w, certainly, if they do adopt
> 
> see y'all next week, wherein fareeha and angela... actually try to talk to each other, lol


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally an open and honest conversation. well. mostly open. mostly honest.

When Angela wakes in the morning, she knows immediately that all will be well.  Uncharacteristically, Fareeha is still in bed beside her, rather than out for her morning run, and Angela can feel her, the warmth of another body and comfort of a familiar presence, before she ever opens her eyes.  They may have argued the night previous—or might have, had Fareeha been able to stay longer—but all is well now, for Fareeha is here again, is by her side, and the two of them can talk things through with clearer heads.

With the panic of the night before having faded, Angela is certain, now, that if she just tells Fareeha that she _cannot_ do this, cannot father a child, then her wife will understand, that all will be well, that they can proceed with adopting instead.  Her wife is understanding, is kind, would never do anything to hurt her.  Therefore, it stands to reason that if she only tells Fareeha that she is not comfortable with this, the issue will be dropped, and they can resume their lives peacefully, happily.

At the thought, she turns to face her wife.  She is still asleep, and Angela thinks that whatever it was that called her away must have been serious, for her to have been out late enough that she is still sleeping at this hour; it is nearly always Angela who rises second, needing two more hours of sleep than her wife to feel well rested.  Although she wants to hold Fareeha, to wrap herself around her wife, Angela refrains—it was hard for Fareeha to adjust to being held by her, even during the daytime, was more than a year into their relationship before she was allowed to hold her then-partner as they fell asleep, and Fareeha is still only comfortable with such happening when they lie front to front, not being comfortable at all with being held from behind—if it was indeed a complex issue which pulled Fareeha away from her last night, she may not be in the right mental state to be held, and Angela can do with waiting until her wife wakes to ask.

What need for contact she has, now, she can satisfy by entwining their legs, and moving one hand to cup her wife’s face.  It surprises her, when she brushes a lock of hair out of the way to cup Fareeha’s cheek, to find that her hair is damp.  Curious—she cannot think of any reason why her wife should have showered before coming to bed.

But, then, perhaps Fareeha got in so late last night that she decided to run before sleeping, and did not wish to go to bed sweaty.  That must be it.

 _Poor Fareeha_ , Angela thinks to herself, _Always working so hard,_ and it is true, Fareeha _does_ work very hard, even if, perhaps, the observation is a bit hypocritical coming from Angela.  She thinks of how much time Fareeha devotes to staying in peak physical condition, how much she cares about the work she does out in the field, and thinks that it is a good thing that Fareeha will not be going through with getting pregnant—Angela does not imagine that her wife would adjust well to having to stay out of the field, or would fancy getting back into shape post-birth.  Better, certainly, to adopt.

(Better—but the way Fareeha’s skin seems to glow in the light, the thickness of her eyelashes visible against her cheeks, the gentleness of her expression… Angela finds herself wondering what Fareeha’s child might look like, for a moment.  Not her own, of course, Angela can never imagine a child with her own eyes, own hair, own face, but _Fareeha’s_ baby, that she can picture.  They would be beautiful, and for a moment Angela almost regrets that she is going to ask that such a possible future not exist.  _Almost._ )

A sudden sharp breath from Fareeha draws Angela from her thoughts, an indication that her wife is waking.  Unlike Angela, her wife does not wake peacefully this morning, and Angela is almost disappointed by that, by how abruptly they are drawn from this moment of peace and propelled towards the moment in which Angela must tell Fareeha that she _cannot_ be a mother, not how Fareeha wants her to be, would be disappointed were it not for the fact that the waiting makes her anxious, and it is better to have it over and done with, truly.

She wants to say it as soon as Fareeha looks awake enough to have the conversation, but her wife is already halfway out of the bed before she finds her voice.

“Fareeha—” she starts, trying to break the news to her wife, mind already racing ahead to the end of this conversation.

“In a minute,” says she.  “Gotta pee.”

“Ah,” says Angela, voice a bit unsure, “Okay?”

Well, this certainly was not one of the scenarios Angela talked herself through last night.  It makes her worry again, having to wait, gives her time to rethink what it is she is going to say, and maybe this is _not_ the best time to be having this conversation, first thing in the morning when Fareeha looked so peaceful only moments ago, especially on one of their rare days off, maybe she can wait until later, or tomorrow, and not ruin things just yet, not hurt her wife by saying no, because really, truly, she does not want to hurt her, only wants for _both_ of them to be happy.

(But if she had to pick one of them, she would pick Fareeha.  Her wife deserves happiness, and is better suited to it than she, in any case.  Happy, Fareeha is at her best; Angela, however, has only ever done her best work when at her worst.)

By the time the door opens, Fareeha flicking an errant drop of water off of her hands after having dried them, Angela is not sure, anymore, what she should say—or how to say it, besides.

So, when Fareeha looks at her expectantly, she does not say what she intended to, does not immediately shut down all considerations of a _baby_ being born to the two of them, only asks, “You really want to be pregnant?” and hates how uncertain she sounds.

(Hesitation does not suit her, it never has—but while she can be decisive in the operating room or when someone questions her morals, she finds it harder, with people she cares for, to not do so, worries about losing them or worse, hurting them.)

“Yes,” answers Fareeha, and it is worse than Angela thought, she does not hesitate for a moment in saying it, uses the same familiar, final tone she might when settling a conflict between the others they serve with. “Very much so.”

The second question that comes to Angela’s mind she immediately discards— _Are you certain?_ Fareeha is—and she says instead, “You want to get pregnant… with me.”  This is not a question, is more a statement, but one she needs to hear confirmed nonetheless.

“Yes,” answers Fareeha again, excited now but no less certain, “Yes, I do.”

Sucking in a breath through her teeth, Angela braces herself to ask the next question—and then, abruptly, changes her mind.  _A moment more of peace_.  “You don’t have to stay standing there in the doorway,” she says instead, patting the bed beside herself, and Fareeha, looking a bit sheepish for reasons Angela cannot place, moves to join her on the bed.

“Sorry,” Fareeha says, clearly jesting, “I swear I’m not trying to run off in the middle of this conversation again.”

“You had better not be,” Angela replies, trying to keep her tone light so as not to let on how seriously she means it. 

“I promise,” Fareeha says, “I _won’t_ have to run off just to solve an insubordination problem at 22:00 that could easily have waited until morning if people weren’t stupid.”

“Insubordination?” Angela asks, confused.  Fareeha was not back when she went to sleep, at nearly 01:30, and an insubordination issue should not have taken so many hours.

“Yeah,” Fareeha says, “Should’ve been clearer with the new recruits that Zenyatta outranks them all, and that even if he sounds nice, he’s still giving an order.”

“I see,” says Angela, although she does not—how could that have taken so long?  _It could not have._ But why, then, did Fareeha not come back immediately?  There was no reason to stay out, unless—

“Are you angry at me?” she asks.  It would explain much—why Fareeha stayed out, why she chose to stay in the doorway of the bathroom rather than sit at Angela’s side, why she was so quick to get up and why she seems somehow _guilty_.

“No!” says Fareeha, almost too quickly.  “I’m not I just—I’m a little hurt, I guess?  I mean, we said we wanted a child, and suddenly you’re telling me that we should adopt.  It caught me off guard.”

“We would be having a child if we adopted one,” Angela points out.

“Yeah,” says Fareeha, “I guess,” and Angela wants to interject, to demand, why _I guess_ and not just _yes_ , but before she can, Fareeha continues, “But we had already talked about having a baby so I just assumed—”

Then, Angela does interrupt, “When did we talk about having a baby?”  They talked about having a child, yes, but a _baby_?  Never.

“I mean,” Fareeha says, sounding confused, “You told me you’d frozen sperm.”

 _Did she?_ Angela does not remember mentioning that, cannot imagine in what context she would have—it was a decision she made only after considerable outside pressure from her doctor and well-intentioned older adults in her life suggesting she might, someday, want a baby, and regret not doing so. 

(The only thing she has regretted is caving to that pressure.)

“That doesn’t mean,” she says very carefully, “That I want to…” she is not sure how to say this, not really, cannot bring herself to give voice to the words, “...to be involved in the conception of a child.  In fact,” her voice turns sharper now, “It was _very_ unfair of you to assume I’d be okay with—with something like that.  Because I’m not, Fareeha.  I’m really not.”  At the last sentence, the pitch of her voice changes, is almost pleading, and she hates how _small_ it sounds.

There is a long pause after that, and when she does finally dare to look at Fareeha’s face, it is _hurt._

This is not what Angela wanted—not at all.  Nor is it what she imagined, because what Fareeha says next is not _That’s okay,_ or _We can adopt_ or even _Let me think about this_ , it is:

“Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” Angela asks, and now _she_ is the one confused.

“You won’t even say it,” Fareeha tells her, “It’s like you’re disgusted by the idea and I just—I don’t understand.  What’s so terrible about getting me pregnant?”

When Fareeha says it, she winces, visibly, even though she knows she should not, knows that Fareeha does not mean anything by it, yet still it is difficult even to hear. 

“It’s nothing you’ve done,” she says, and she hopes it is clear from her tone how very much she means that, but, “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Fareeha asks, not challenging her statement but confused, certainly.

“I love you, Fareeha,” she says, “I really do, but this isn’t something I could do for anyone—fathering a child is…”

…It is too many things to say, and none of them good.  A ball of negative thoughts and feelings she does not want tainting her relationship with their child.

“Fathering?” Fareeha asks, sounding more confused than ever.  “I mean, I guess you could call it that if you wanted but—you’d be our baby’s mother, too.”

“I wouldn’t,” Angela says—because it is true, she would not be their child’s mother in the same way Fareeha would, would always have hanging over her the specter of fatherhood, the knowledge that if she were not trans her child would not _exist_.  She cannot be a mother, in that way, without first being a father and it makes her ill to even think about it.  Her free hand, the one not held beneath Fareeha’s fidgets with their comforter, pulling it higher above herself, covering her lap as if there were anything left to cover.

“Of course you would be,” Fareeha says, “You’re my _wife_ , I wouldn’t expect you to be anything besides a mother to our child.”  Then, concerned, “You didn’t think that I would, did you?”

“No,” Angela reassures her, first, before getting to the heart of the matter, “I didn’t think you meant that.  It’s only that…”

How to say this?  To explain to Fareeha that she cannot have what she wants—what she has dreamed of, because Angela cannot control her _own_ thoughts, her own feelings, her own dysphoria, even two decades after having come out.  She tells herself she ought to be over it by now, so many years later—she is a woman, and everyone who knows her knows that—but she is not, and likely will never be.  Difficult days are few and far between, now, but on them she still struggles enough that she knows that having a child, a constant reminder, would be too much for her to handle.

“I’d know,” she says, and immediately clarifies, “I’d know how they came to be and I don’t think that… No, I _know_ that it wouldn’t be good for me.”

“Oh,” Fareeha says, and nothing more.

“I’m sorry,” and she _is_ sorry, sorry that she is disappointing Fareeha, sorry that at some point she said something which allowed Fareeha to hope for something impossible, sorry that she cannot be everything her wife wants her to, “But I couldn’t do it.  I’d _resent_ them Fareeha, and myself for feeling that way.  I don’t want that for our child.”

(What she does not say is her greatest fear of all—that she would resent _Fareeha_ if they had a baby together, would grow to hate her wife for putting her into such a position.  She does not say this because it is too terrible to give voice to, the thought that she could come to hate the woman she loves most, but she could; hatred is a feeling Angela keeps boxed away as much as she can, for she has allowed it to consume her before.  Worse even than that is the knowledge that even if she _despised_ Fareeha, Angela strongly suspects that she would love her, still.)

Now it is Fareeha who says, “I’m sorry,” and before Angela can tell her that she has nothing to apologize for, that she did not intend to hurt Angela by _wanting_ , she continues, “I didn’t think about it and I should have, I really should have.”

“It’s okay,” Angela tells her, and it _is_ , it is okay, now, because Fareeha understands, and they have no need to worry about this any longer, because her wife understood, just like she thought she would, so they can move forward, now, with adopting a child, and all will be well for the both of them.

“It isn’t,” Fareeha insists, “I shouldn’t have assumed just because you mentioned—well, you know—that you would be okay with _that_.”  It is a little awkward, the way Fareeha dances around the subject, but Angela appreciates it, that she is trying not to prod the wound any further.  “I never wanted to make you uncomfortable, especially since it isn’t like we can’t find a sperm donor, anyway.”

“Well,” Angela says, “We _could_ , I guess, but why go through all the trouble when we could adopt?” 

(As used as Angela is, as a doctor, to asking people about their bodily functions, the idea of asking one of their friends—or a stranger!—to donate sperm is unbearably awkward even in theory.)

“I mean,” Fareeha says, “I _want_ to be pregnant.”

She said as much at the beginning of the conversation, but Angela cannot fathom being pregnant being preferable to adoption, not when there are so many reasons to adopt and when pregnancy would, by necessity, take quite the toll on her body—would force her off of the field and into an office, would require recovery time and—

—And Angela decides to point this out.

“I don’t see why,” she says, “We’d have a child either way, and if we adopted you wouldn’t have to worry about complications, and spending months out of combat, and getting back into shape afterwards.  Why go through all that when we could adopt?”

“Because,” Fareeha says, looking a bit uncomfortable, “It isn’t really the same, is it?  We _could_ adopt yes, but we could also have our _own_ baby, so unless I can’t conceive for some reason I’d really prefer to be pregnant.”

“Our _own_ baby?” Angela repeats, needing to hear her wife say it again to be certain she is not misinterpreting.

“Well,” Fareeha says, “You wouldn’t have to be involved biologically for it to be ours—you’d still be there for the whole pregnancy, and the birth, so—”

“Implying that an adopted child wouldn’t be _ours_?”

(This is not a belief Angela is unfamiliar with, is one that, as a child, she heard far too many times from adults for whom she cared, but it is one she _never_ thought she would hear from her own wife, from Fareeha who is compassionate and caring and not the sort of person, she thought, to think of non-blood relations as lesser.  Not the sort of person who would have turned her away, all those years ago.  Yet, it seems, she _is_.)

“They would be,” Fareeha tries to assure her, “But it wouldn’t be the same, exactly.”

“ _Wouldn’t be the same?_ ” Angela hates the choked quality her voice takes on as she says that, the way it comes out not strong, but hurt.

“I didn’t mean—” Fareeha starts.

“I don’t care,” Angela tells her, and means it, “I really don’t.”

Again, Fareeha moves as if to say something, grip on Angela’s hand tightening, but Angela, already halfway off of the bed, pulls it loose and cuts her off before she can begin, “I’m going to get in the shower,” says she, “And when I come out to put clothes on I want you to be dressed and somewhere else.”

(She is angry—too angry—and afraid that she will say something she regrets, that both of them will.  It is a betrayal, to know that Fareeha thinks of adoptees, of orphans like herself, as _lesser_ , makes her dizzy with rage to even think of.  Talking about this now will do neither of them any good.)

“Angela—”

“We can talk about this later,” she says, her voice not softening even then, “But right now I _can’t_ have this conversation with you.”

(She wishes that she had never begun this morning’s talk at all, that she had given into her anxiety for once and waited out the day, because she does not know if she will ever look at her wife the same way again, knowing what she does now.)

“Okay,” Fareeha agrees, and Angela should be happy about that much, at least, but it is a far cry from the agreement she _expected_ to start the day with, and it takes a good deal of restraint to her not to slam shut the bathroom door when she hears it.

Even as angry as she is, she would never slam the door—sudden loud noises bother Fareeha.

She would not want to hurt her wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well............... there was an attempt
> 
> we get more on fareehas thinking (and what she actually meant to say) next chapter :D
> 
> ty for reading <3 sorry this is a couple hrs later than usual, im suuuuuuper sick and accidentally took a five hour nap LOL


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went back and forth on transcribing signs directly or using english grammar for this chapter, and settled on the latter, for claritys sake. for more on sam in this universe (and signing) see (with a) sign...

Asking things of her mother is never easy for Fareeha.  This is not because she fears Ana will refuse her—if anything, her mother is too quick to acquiesce, these days.  A younger, crueler Fareeha, the part of her that is _Amari_ and little else, all caught up in the notion of a family legacy of proud soldiers, might say that her mother has grown weak, with time, not in the physical sense, although her strength, while not inconsiderable, is no longer at its peak, but in the mental sense.  Once, Ana was defiant, was proud, was intractable.  Now, she is less so.

Certainly, when it comes to her principles Ana is not much changed.  There, she does not compromise, can be as self-possessed and fierce and steadfast as ever.  It is easy, in times when her mother is defending her beliefs, to see the same woman who raised Fareeha, the same Captain Amari who was known the world over for her sharp tongue and sharper shooting—but when Fareeha asks things of her?  Then, she crumbles.

(It was not easy, their reconciliation.  Her mother was hurting, still, but so, too, was Fareeha, and she did not comfort her mother, did not welcome her back with open arms—she pushed her away, wanted Ana to hurt like _she_ had been hurt, by their fighting, by her mother dying, by all of it.  Now, when she gives so easily, it feels as if her mother is still trying to make up for something that Fareeha feels would be best left in the past entirely, because it cannot be forgiven, even if it no longer defines them.)

Usually, Fareeha wants to be angry when she does that, to yell at her to fight back, to put down her foot, to not treat Fareeha as if one refusal would break her—for that is how it feels to be tiptoed around so, and maybe if Fareeha yelled it might get through to Ana, who has always known better what to do with hostility than with love.  But she does not yell, does not even speak of it, because in truth she, too, is guilty of tiptoeing around her mother.  It does neither of them any good.

Today, however, Fareeha is grateful for that easy acquiescence, for the fact that when she asks to use Ana’s quarters in order to call her father in private—rather than her own, shared with Angela—there are no questions asked of her.

(That is not to say there is no reaction.  Fareeha does not miss the hurt that crosses her mother’s face when she tells Ana, her voice not hiding her own distress, that she _needs_ to call her father.  But how could Fareeha ask her mother for help with this?  How, when they still find themselves skirting difficult conversations?  Even were they not, her father is better suited.)

It has been long enough, now, since she awoke, and subsequently found herself temporarily banished from her quarters, that her father will now be awake despite the time difference, and when she calls he responds nearly immediately—unscheduled calls from her are, unfortunately, a rare occurrence, and usually urgent.

 _Fareeha?_ his head is cocked questioningly as he signs her name, forehead wrinkled in confusion.  Not his usual greeting, and the way he holds his hand in position after he finishes the sign emphasizes his feelings.

 _Yes, me_ , Fareeha agrees.

 _You’re in Ana’s room_ , he tells her, exaggerating the sign for her mother’s name, sharp and fast under his eye, and only then does Fareeha pause to consider how conspicuous the situation is over a video call—how she is not in her living room, on the chartreuse couch Angela reluctantly allowed as a singular pop of color, before Fareeha’s more colorful sensibilities won out, but in  her _mother’s_ , which while comfortable is very different, decorated in rich, dark tones and with a military sword hanging above her head in the background.

(Her father’s house is in similar colors, and Fareeha suddenly finds herself trying _not_ to think about how he answered a call he believed was from her mother whilst in a dressing gown.)

He is worried, Fareeha realizes suddenly, worried that something has happened—and something _has,_ but not to her mother.

 _She let me use it,_ Fareeha answers, assigning Ana a referent in the bottom right corner of the conversation, a visual cue that this conversation will not be about her, given the lack of priority in her placement, but still allowing her to be easily referenced later. 

 _Is your room broken?_ her father is not _insincere_ in his question, exactly, but from his face Fareeha can see that his phrasing is mostly in jest.

 _Angela_ , Fareeha signs her name top left, rather than using her wife’s sign name, giving her a referent as a main topic of the conversation, _does not want me there._

Any hint of jest is gone from her father’s face, then, and when he signs _What happened_ the movements of his hand are deliberate, carefully measured.

 _I misspoke,_ she tells him, and the transition from _mess up_ to _words_ feels clunky as she signs it—another mistake.  If she spoke to her father more, this would not happen, but she is out of practice; she has taught Angela to sign, to help when anxiety renders her wife non-verbal, but she is not _fluent_ , not like Fareeha and her father, is not good conversational practice.

Her father does not move to reply, only takes a sip from his mug of coffee, clearly waiting for her to elaborate before he says anything further, eyebrows raised.  There is no judgement in his expression, not yet, and perhaps that is why he is so much easier to speak to than her mother—while Ana exists only in extremes, her father is stable, is calm, is moderated.

 _I said_ , Fareeha tells him, _That giving birth is not the same as adopting a baby._ The referent for _baby_ she places near to _Angela—_ not so nearly that they might be confused, but clearly, they are connected to one another, of equal importance.

 _Elaborate?_ her father asks, his usually expressive face very carefully impassive—reserving judgement, but certainly not approving.

 _I meant that the experience is different.  I want—_ she hesitates for a moment, before moving her right hand in front of her abdomen fingers pointed down, palm open and facing herself, then moving it outwards, as if cupping a growing bump, the sign for _pregnant._

(This is the first time she has told him this—has told anyone, really, besides Angela, not because it is a secret, but because it was not relevant, before now, did not feel attainable or immediate until recently—and to his credit, he does not interrupt her, but he reacts visibly to this information, and positively, at that.)

 _But,_ she continues, uncrossing her fingers sharply, and willing herself not to think about other kinds of separation, _It sounded like I said adoption was lesser,_ and the end of the sign _less_ has her hand again in front of her abdomen, fingers pointed down, palm in _._

 _She wants to adopt?_ her father asks her, emphasizing the adoption aspect by signing it first, _adopt_ then _wants_ then _she,_ one finger pointed to Angela’s referent.

 _Yes,_ Fareeha confirms, before adding, perhaps unnecessarily, _She is an orphan._

( _Orphan_ combines _mother_ and _father_ while indicating that they are dead, and Fareeha cannot stop the thought before she has it, that if something were to happen to them, their baby would not even be able to claim the word _orphan_ in sign.  She is simultaneously frustrated by the ways in which her relationship, and others like it, are still written out in society, and by the very languages they use, and she hurts for her child, who does not yet exist, just imagining a future where the assumptions in this word would be of immediate concern to them.)

Now, Sam understands.  _You hurt her, yes,_ he says, his signs precise, matter of fact, and then softer, face relaxing, _But you didn’t mean to._

 _That doesn’t matter_ , Fareeha says, _I hurt her,_ and she uses the two-handed sign for _hurt_ , rather than the one-handed _deflated_ —the pain may as well have been physical.

 _Did you apologize?_ her father signs, and though his expression is gentle, the way his hand flicks from the smooth arc of _apologize_ to the pointing _you_ feels somehow like an accusation.

 _No chance yet,_ Fareeha replies, _She told me to leave,_ and when she touches her fingertips for _leave_ she does so strongly enough that she can hear it, the sound of the motion. 

 _Apologize as soon as you can then,_ he tells her, _As soon as you are both ready._

 _Both—_ and there is something Fareeha has not thought about: her own feelings on the conversation, the fact that she is still hurt and confused by the abrupt change in direction, by the flat refusal to consider what it is that she wants, and as a result she does not even know fully what it is she wants to say to Angela, besides that she is sorry for the implication of her words, that she spoke in error and did not mean to say that adoption was in any way _lesser_ than having a child biologically, that she regrets hurting Angela, saying the wrong things in the wrong way and causing harm.  She knows how to apologize, yes, has done so before, just as Angela has apologized to her, but what of the rest, what of her own feelings, her own wants?  Where, in her apology, is there room for them?

(This, she cannot ask her father to answer—he has always been too quick to apologize, and her mother too slow.  They lacked balance, always, and she and Angela are always striving for equilibrium.  This is something she must determine for herself, and it troubles her, for there is no right or easy answer, no other person who can tell her how she feels, and how to express those feelings.  It is quite the predicament.)

 _How will I know,_ she asks her father, _When I am ready?  How, when I do not know even what I feel?_ She says it out loud, this time, as she signs, her voice cracking on the word _feel_ , her chest jumping under her hand with the force of the word.

 _I cannot tell you how you feel,_ he tells her, _or when you will be ready to speak to Angela.  But Fareeha,_ he goes out of his way to sign her name, despite the lack of need for direct address, changing his signing pattern to mimic English grammar, for the moment, an obvious—but appreciated—attempt to make the conversation more comfortable for her, _I know that you love Angela, and she loves you.  It hurts,_ he says, but signs _deflates_ , it crushes him, _When we do not want the same future as the ones we love._

(He has experience in this—she knows that he proposed, years ago, when she was an infant.  She knows, too, that her mother accepted, but said that they would marry after the Omnic Crisis was solved, and she knows that when the time came, her mother could no longer see herself retiring from military life, staying with the two of them in Canada or Egypt, would not, could not, marry her father.  This is not the same situation, but he has felt the pain of watching his and a lover’s wants for the future diverge.)

She did not tell him that such was bothering her—was not even aware to what degree that fact distressed her until he pointed it out—but he is right.  She made it clear to him that she _wants_ to be pregnant, has wanted this for a long time, and Angela does not want that for her, for either of them, has decided that it is something they _cannot_ do.  Perhaps that is what bothers her, not the loss of the potential future, although that is in and of itself something which troubles her deeply, but the fact that she has had no say at all in the decision, that Angela has decided unilaterally what is and is not possible for them, that troubles her.

More unsettling, though, is the realization that she did the same, that she decided before they ever began the discussion not only that she would be pregnant, but that her wife would be involved in a way which is clearly painful for her to even contemplate.  Both of them have made assumptions that hurt one another, and she knows this now only because Angela made her own distress clear—but Fareeha herself?  She has done nothing to let her wife know how important this is for her, has not voiced her own hurt.

Now, as a result, she is in a situation where she needs to apologize, and deserves, too, an apology of her own, but she has not been able to even vocalize her own hurt, has not been able to find the words, in the moment, or even hours after, to explain how much this pulls at her, too, how difficult it is for her to come to the realization that their perfect futures are not the same, and one of them will have to sacrifice their own.  She thinks that her wife must have seen her confusion, her pain, her _grief_ , even, during their discussion, but Fareeha never vocalized it, never truly said what it was she was feeling—save for the, now proven baseless, fear that Angela objected to the idea of helping her get pregnant because of something that Fareeha had done—and she is afraid to broach the subject of her own pain, lest it seem that she is diminishing the severity of the way in which she hurt Angela.

 _How can I tell her_ , Fareeha asks her father, _That I understand that she hurts,_ she signs for physical pain, again, because that was how first she referred to the effects of her poor word choice on her wife, _but we are both hurting,_ and this time, she signs to make it clear that this pain is emotional in nature, the agony of knowing that their potential futures may be irreconcilable and the disappointment of seeing her dreams, once so ebullient, shrunk down before her—deflating, like a balloon.

 _You say it,_ her father signs, matter of fact, and specifies the speaking part, finger rotating in front of his mouth, _As close as what you signed to me._

 _How do I distinguish hurt and hurt?_ she asks him.  Signing may be her father’s first language, but his written English is more eloquent than that of anyone she knows, must be exacting and precise for his work, and if anyone can help her with the phrasing of this it is he.

English is not the same as signing; when she and her father sign, they can create their own referents for a conversation and set the parameters for their discussion thus, can use two ways of signing the same English meaning to differentiate between conversations, can manipulate their conversation in a three dimensional plane to communicate nuance that she cannot with her voice, and they do it all on even ground.  It would be one thing to have arrived at this conclusion in English, and needed only to repeat herself—that she can do, and eloquently so—but it is another to translate concepts which do not exist in both languages across that linguistic barrier, and to preserve both clarity and nuance.  Translation is not something she has much practice with, is not something with which she has enough experience to rely on her natural aptitude with words to see her through, but her father must translate his thoughts between writing and signing every day, and has ample experience in that arena.

 _First you tell her that you are sorry she is hurt_ , he signs for _pain_ , _And then tell her that you are both hurt_ , he signs _deflated_ , _And tell her that you know that they are different kinds of hurt.  Tell her that she feels both, and you feel only the one, but that you both are hurt equally in that regard._

 _That simple?_ Fareeha asks, and exaggerates her disbelief with her expression, eyebrows raised.

 _No_ , her father laughs, and she can hear it across the call.   _Never._

 _Damn_ , she signs, but she, too, is amused, and feeling much more positively about this than before.  At least, now, she knows some of what she is feeling, enough to begin to unravel what she _wants_ the result of her conversation with Angela to be, beyond just a recognition from both herself and her wife that they have hurt one another, even if unintentionally.

 _Language,_ he chides her, as if she did not learn the sign from him, fighting to maintain a fake stern expression as he does so, before sobering somewhat and adding, _But just because it will not be so uncomplicated does not make it difficult, or impossible.  I have faith in you, always._

 _Thank you,_ she signs, and feels her lips begin to form the words along with the sign, the strong constant sounds in _thank_ pushing against her fingertips.

 _I mean it_ , he tells her, signing _true business_ to underscore his sincerity, rather than relying on an English equivalent phrasing.  _You are too stubborn for your own good, sometimes, but it is a strength, too.  I know that you will fight for this to end well for both of you, if only because you could not stand to compromise your happiness or hers._ Another pause, and an inscrutable expression crosses her father’s face, _Ana has always been the same._

 _I’m not sure if that is a compliment,_ Fareeha says—uncomfortable, still, with comparisons to her mother almost reflexively, even if her father will never compare her to Ana in the way that the rest of the world does— _But I hope you are right._

 _Of course I am,_ her father flashes her a grin as he says it, _But back to your mother._

Fareeha thinks _Oh no_ , already unprepared for whatever she is going to be drawn into, but she does not say it, and secretly she is grateful for the change in topic.  For her father to bring Ana up, now, he must be certain that they have said all they need to about the reason Fareeha called him; it is a vote of confidence in and of itself.

She can do this, she can.  For her father is right—she is as stubborn as her mother, but she is also as good as he ever was at compromising in relationships when it is necessary, at humbling herself and knowing when and how to apologize, and between her parents’ differing strengths, she thinks she might be able to find the balance they never quite did.  She will accept nothing less from herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter... another conversation but one w hopefully less fighting lol
> 
> ...and after that, finally some ana content lmao


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ppl... talking abt things... like responsible adults... wrow

When Fareeha has not returned to their quarters by their usual lunchtime, Angela notes it, but is still too freshly hurt to mind terribly.  When Fareeha misses dinner, she is disappointed, certainly, having cooked for them both as a gesture that she is angry, yes, but she still loves her wife, and now that the initial shock of the comment has faded she knows that she will be able to forgive Fareeha, in time—it hurt, yes, but not enough to fundamentally change the way in which she views her wife.  When 23:30 comes and passes, with still no sign of Fareeha, Angela begins to worry; perhaps she was too harsh in the moment, or did not make it clear enough to Fareeha that she did not want her to leave _long term_ , only until she had calmed.  Whatever the cause, her wife is not back now, when normally Angela would be going to sleep, and that worries her.  Never, since they started to live with one another, have they gone an entire day on the same base without saying that they love one another, no matter how angry either of them is.  Especially given that Fareeha was out late the night previous, and Angela does not know where, she is disconcerted by this development, to say the least. 

She will just have to stay awake until Fareeha comes back.  Surely, it will not take her too long; Fareeha is often awake longer than she, that much is true, but not by terribly long—an hour, perhaps two at most—and given that she was out late last night, she is probably more tired than usual, and should therefore want to sleep sooner.  Angela can stay awake until she returns, if she wants to, she is certain of it.

Naught but fifteen minutes later and she is beginning to doubt her conviction.  As easy as it is to stay awake when she is _working,_ when she has something to be doing that demands her full attention, mind and body, this is an entirely different scenario.  She allowed Fareeha to pick out this abominably colored couch solely because it was so comfortable, and now she finds herself fighting not to give in to its pull, to sink deeper into its cushions and allow herself to drift off.  

Another twenty minutes and she is suddenly reminded that Fareeha is not the only one who was awake for longer than usual last night, and after she yawns for the third time in five minutes she begins to seriously begins to consider just resting her eyes, if only for a moment.  The past two days have been exhausting after all, emotions running high, and a mission right before.  It would be so easy to close her eyes for a moment and—

No, she had better not; Angela knows herself well enough to know that if she falls asleep now she will not hear Fareeha entering, and knows her _wife_ well enough to know that she cannot expect the other to deliberately rouse her upon reentering their quarters.  But it is so very tempting….

Perhaps reading will distract her. She picks up one of Fareeha's volumes of poetry that is lying on the coffee table, and hopes it will be of interest.

(It is not, but at least this time she can claim that the reason it fails to capture her attention is because she is tired, and not because she does not _understand_ the appeal of poetry, although that, too, is true. Even to herself, she has little interest in admitting that she might be incapable of understanding something.)

00:45 comes, and passes, and Angela is really, truly struggling to stay awake at that point, catching her eyes trying to drift closed every few minutes, repeatedly jerked from near sleep by the weight of the book falling from her hands to her lap. Fifteen more minutes, and she will give up on this, will finally, finally allow herself the sleep she needs—even if she would rather she had the opportunity to speak with Fareeha first, she cannot reasonably be blamed, now, for not having tried harder to stay awake.

A scant two minutes after she reaches this conclusion, her wife finally returns.

Fareeha looks tired, too, but not in the same way Angela does. It is clear that she has just come from the gym, freshly showered as she is, with her gym bag thrown over one shoulder. She does not look, as Angela does, like she intends on sleeping any time soon, but rather she seems fatigued from having been active.

What Angela has intended to say for all this time, what she wanted to say, _I love you_ , is not the first thing that she ends up telling her wife, instead “You're back late again,” slips out of her mouth before she can stop it, and even if she did not intend it to be it sounds so very accusing.

“I am,” Fareeha agrees, almost neutrally, save for her posture, which makes it clear that she will not tolerate Angela being angry with her for this decision. That is fair, of course—when Angela has been angry with her wife, she, too, has been guilty of coming home later than usual, of spending too-long hours in the lab in order to avoid confrontation of any sort, or worse, guilt.

“Sorry,” says she, “I didn't mean it like that.” A pause, during which Fareeha says nothing, clearly waiting for her to continue, and she sets the book down, pulls nervously at a strand of her own hair, “I was just waiting for you to come back before I slept, that's all. So I could tell you that I loved you, before I went to sleep. Because I do love you, I really do. Even when I'm angry.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, no longer the least bit defensively, “I love you too, Angela, even when we're _both_ angry.”

(Angela knew this, of course, but it is still nice to hear, nice to know that although she is angry, and evidently Fareeha is, too, that does not mean that either of them holds any less love for other. She knew this, and so she does not say _Thank God,_ but she does think it, if only to herself.)

“And,” Fareeha continues, before Angela has to think of what to say next, where to go with this, “I'm sorry, about what I said. It wasn't what I meant, but I know that doesn't matter because—because I was careless, and I hurt you, and I don't want you to think that I wouldn't love an adopted child, or that I think any less of families that aren't blood related. Because I don't. I meant that they were different experiences, not... not unequal, in some way. I know they aren't, and I shouldn't have implied they were, even on accident. I don't want to hurt you, not ever, and I especially don't want you to feel like you're—like people don't get adopted because that would be _settling_. It isn't, _you aren't_ , settling. You're my first choice, always.”

It is not that Angela was expecting _not_ to hear an apology, exactly, because she and Fareeha are both fairly good at apologizing to one another, when they ought to, but she was still somehow unprepared for this, right now, thinking that she and Fareeha would discuss this tomorrow, perhaps, or even later, that it would wait until after she slept. Well, at least she is decidedly _awake_ now.

What she wants to ask now is _How can they not be unequal, if they are clearly so different to you,_ but that is not what she says, because it is late, and she is tired, and she does not want to fight again, not just yet. She can question Fareeha about that tomorrow, and not first thing in the morning, but later, when both of them are well rested, and no one will misspeak due to tiredness and cause further hurt in the process.

Instead what she says is, “Okay,” and it is not terrible effusive, is not an _I understand_ , because she still does not, not entirely, or an _It's fine,_ because it is not, yet, is still something she is hurt by, but she can accept Fareeha's apology for what it is—a sincere admission that she never intended to imply what she did, and especially did not want to bring harm by so doing, that she loves Angela, despite what she herself may fear about being unworthy, somehow, of Fareeha's love.

“Okay?” Fareeha asks, clearly expecting something more from Angela.

“Yes,” says she, not sure what else _to_ say. Another pause, during which Fareeha sets down her gym bag by the closet and comes to sit on the other end of the couch, a good half meter from where Angela has curled up. When Fareeha reaches to rub her calves, normally a soothing gesture, she jerks her legs away and adds, “I'm still angry Fareeha—I'm trying not to be, but it isn't that easy.”

Now, Fareeha withdraws her hands entirely, sets them in her own lap. Unlike Angela, she does not have the habit of wringing them when nervous, or fidgeting in any other way. Instead she straightens her posture, her body reflecting how seriously she is taking the conversation in question.

“I'm sure it'll pass,” Angela adds, hoping that Fareeha understands, “I just need a little more time to think about it, okay? You only apologized to me a minute ago and I... I still have a lot to think about, alright?”

Fareeha nods, turns to her and smiles somewhat sheepishly before adding, “I suppose this isn't the best time, then, to apologize for something else, too?”

“I don't know what it could be,” Angela says, and thinks the better of adding, _And I'm not sure I want to know,_ because it is not true—even if it would make her angrier, she does want to know, desperately, why it is Fareeha has been out late two nights in a row, has needed a shower before returning home. This time she might have returned with her gym bag, yes, but she did not have the opportunity or reason to do so the night previous.

(Truthfully, Angela has no idea what it is Fareeha has done with her time—other than smoking, which she quit nearly two years ago now, Fareeha is not a person of many vices. In comparison, Angela often feels badly about herself and her own myriad of bad habits. So she does not speculate, does not feel she has any room to criticize almost anything Fareeha might have been doing.)

“I've been inconsiderate—worse, been selfish—and I mean, we both have, but—"

“Both?” Angela interjects, and the anger she has been trying to avoid expressing suddenly flares back up, finds its way to the surface in the way her voice is suddenly very cold.

“I'm getting there,” Fareeha tells her, then turns to look her directly in the eye, not challenging but earnest, “I shouldn't have assumed so much about our future, and, worse, I shouldn't have thought, after we argued about it the first time, that mine was the only _right_ answer. It isn't—even if it's the one I prefer. And I'm sorry I didn't consider your perspective, that I tried to choose for the both of us. It's _our_ future, not just mine, and I shouldn't be trying to force my wishes on both of us.”

“Ah,” says Angela, “That... isn't what I was expecting.”

Fareeha looks as confused as Angela feels, “What did you think I was going to apologize for?”

How to say this without sounding accusing? “I just thought—I don't know, really, but, well... I don't know where you've been, staying out late, and maybe it had something to do with that.”

Now it is Fareeha who frowns at her, “What did you think I was doing, Angela?”

“I didn't think anything,” says she, “I just couldn't think of anything else you'd done wrong recently, so I thought it had to be something that happened when I wasn't there.” It sounds a bit stupid, when she says it like that, but at least she is being honest.

A laugh from Fareeha, “That's a relief. I thought you were going to accuse me of—well, we'd have bigger problems than we do now, if you somehow thought I was that sort of person.” A pause, and then, rather more seriously, “I had a cigarette last night—just one, but it took me a while to get it, and to get to somewhere where Athena couldn't see me. Not to mention that I had to wash my clothing afterwards, so you wouldn't have to smell it.” She frowns, and so, too does Angela.

“You really shouldn't—" Angela starts to berate her, fueled both by worry and anger at Fareeha's deception.

“I know, okay? I know. It was one time in two years, and I got rid of the rest of the pack. I _know_ I shouldn't, and I don't want to do it—especially not now—and so today when I thought about it I went to the gym for the second time in one day, and worked out until I was too tired to go through all the effort of going out and getting another.”

“You know you can tell me,” Angela says, “When you think about doing it again—you _know_ that even if I'm angry, I'll keep you company so you don't get back into the habit. You should've—”

“ _Yes,_ ” Fareeha interrupts her, _“_ I should have but... I was ashamed, Angela, and I didn't want to worry you.”

“I'd rather I worried than you do something which hurts you. You know that.”  She means it well, but Fareeha seems only more uncomfortable with that answer.

“Can we not lecture me about this right now? Please? I feel bad enough about it as it is.”

What Angela thinks is _That makes two of us_ , but she does not say it, because it would be unfair, would be unproductive, would be hurting Fareeha only because she herself is hurt right now, is angry and now worried about Fareeha, too.

Instead she says, “Alright,” and then, “What were you trying to say, before I distracted us.”

“I was apologizing for assuming,” Fareeha says, “For thinking that my way was the only _right_ way for us to go about this. I didn't mean to—I don't know. I didn't mean to make you feel like your thoughts and feelings on this didn't matter to me. They do, they _always_ do.”

“It's okay,” Angela tells her, and means it; she knew Fareeha would come around eventually, that once she discussed why she _could not_ go through with getting Fareeha pregnant, that the conversation would be dropped and they would be able to have a rational discussion about all of this.

“No,” Fareeha tells her, “It isn't. And I know that because it wasn't fair of you to do to _me,_ either.”

“I don't see,” Angela tells her, “How explaining that I'm not comfortable with getting you pregnant is at all the same as you assuming that I would be.”

“That's not it,” Fareeha shifts even further now, pulling one leg up onto the couch so that they are facing each other fully, sitting at opposing ends. “You discounted the notion of me being pregnant _entirely_ , and yes, I discounted adoption, and it was wrong of me, but that doesn't mean you're in the right, either.”

Admittedly, Angela does not really know what to say to that. Fareeha is _right_ , she did assume that adoption was the better option for the two of them, because she genuinely believes it is, and thought that her wife would come around if only she explained that she was uncomfortable with the notion of having Fareeha inseminated. How is it not?

She tells Fareeha as much, “Aren't I? If you get pregnant then you'll have to be out of the field for a year, maybe more if there are complications. And that's just assuming you'll be able to get pregnant easily—taller women are more prone to infertility, as are women who have high-stress occupations. Even discounting the physical concerns, why would we risk bringing another child into a world like ours? We could orphan them, if we don't quit our jobs—at least adopting, we would be making it so there was one _less_ orphan in the world, not potentially one more. And—"

“—And we could still die if we adopt a child, and then they'll have been orphaned _twice!_ ” Fareeha is not yelling, not quite, but she is coming close, and she breathes deeply before continuing, “Angela, you aren't being fair. It could be difficult for us to adopt, too, and I'm _willing_ to take a year off if I have to, to be out of the field for a full pregnancy and take maternity leave afterwards. That's my _choice_.”

How can she argue with that, other than to say that it is _her_ choice to adopt, and that hardly helps at all. They are once again at an impasse—and, worse, Fareeha is right, she _has_ assumed unfairly that Fareeha would not have fully considered this, has not thought of all of the potential consequences, when her wife _has_ done so, and has accepted them.

“You're right,” Angela says.

“I am?” Fareeha dares to sound hopeful, then, and Angela does feel badly about what she is going to say next.

“Yes, I was wrong to think that you hadn't considered everything—to think that my way was the only right way. _But_ , Fareeha,” she adds, before her wife can become too excited, “That doesn't mean I'm convinced. It just means that we both want different things, and I... I don't know where we go from here. Because I don't think I'm going to change my mind any time soon, and I don't think you are either.”

“Probably not, no,” Fareeha agrees, and moves to stand again, “But I don't think we have to work anything more out, just yet.”

“Don't we?” Angela asks her. To her eyes, they are no closer than they were when they began.

“No,” Fareeha says, “I mean, we know a little more about each other's positions now, right? And we know that we both made assumptions. That's progress. Now we just have to think about each other's concerns, before we try this again, and I'm sure then I'll conversation will be more productive.”

“I hope so,” Angela says.

“Well, at the very least,” Fareeha says, extending a hand to help Angela up off of the couch, “It couldn't hurt either of us to get some sleep, could it?”

“I suppose it couldn’t,” Angela agrees, and if the couch was tempting earlier, the idea of falling asleep in their bed, her wife beside her, is even more so.  When she takes Fareeha’s hand to stand, she pulls herself in close enough to give her wife a quick kiss.

“I love you,” she says, and means it, “No matter what."

“I know,” Fareeha tells her, “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, theyre trying. reaching an agreement when u want vastly different things takes time, and theyre both stubborn as hell. but at least no one is angry anymore.
> 
> next chapter... ana... aka my fave... she finally gets to have a decent appearance... ive been Waiting... but the moment had to be right u know


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick notes relating to linguistic decisions i made here, u can ignore them if u dgaf abt that shit:   
> \- ana refers to fareeha as 'dear' here, bc at every point where she says it shes speaking in arabic and it would be weird to not translate a single word ~for flavor~ or whatever. dear isnt a direct translation of habibti but baby has weird connotations in english and like... i didnt directly translate any of the other arabic grammar/word choice bc this is a fic In English. if ana were speaking english for most of the fic, then itd be untranslated bc she uses the arabic word in english sentences w fareeha. nitpicky? probably.  
> \- hypothetical baby is referred to in singular they/them in the dialogue, but in arabic this isnt actually feasible (or at least in my dialect it isnt); this was just for readability. eventually, in a future chapter, ill mention gendered language and arabic so i dont want anyone to be like "but u wrote..." LMAO, esp when the real trouble comes in w second person (gendered "you")  
> \- at the end, when theyve switched to english ana says "inshallah" which means... very different things depending on context. like literally its always "God willing" which can be sincere, as ana is, or very sarcastic, like 'thats never gonna happen.' so like while ana has every reason to use it sincerely, fareeha, being the less religious one who often uses it to say shes not gonna do smtg, is kinda like... "oof"

Knowing what one ought to do in complicated situations is, for many people, a difficult thing. It can be challenging to take measure of the needs of everyone in a given situation, to weigh the wants of one against another, to do what is _right._ For many people, the question of _what ought to be done_ is nearly paralyzing. Fareeha is not, and has never been, such a one.

This is not to say, however, that doing what she ought comes _easily_ , or without a great deal of reluctance, in situations such as this one.  While Fareeha is perfectly aware that there is one person to whom speaking might prove illuminating, whose advice and experiences might prove invaluable, it is not an appealing course of action.

Yes, Fareeha wants answers.  Yes, Fareeha wants the question of how she and Angela ought to proceed answered sooner, rather than later.  No, Fareeha does _not_ want to talk to her mother about any of this.

Yet, that is the position she finds herself in, two days later, once again asking her mother if they might speak in private, and this time, rather than calling her father, instead she sits down rather uncertainly on the less comfortable of her mother's two living chairs nervously smooths her palms over her pants, and spits out the words, “I need advice.”

Her mother frowns, cup halfway to her mouth, and says, “I hope you don't mind if I finish this before you call your father.”

“Actually,” says she, hoping that her discomfort does not show too much in her voice—it does, of course, it _always_ does, and her mother must hear it, but Ana does not remark upon it, “I was hoping that I could ask _you_ for advice, this time.”

It would be impossible, for someone who did not know her mother before, to be certain of whether or not Ana is raising a single eyebrow in response to this, or both, but Fareeha knew her mother when she had two eyes still, when the one half of her face was not hidden behind her hair, and she knows that it is in interest, not surprise, that Ana raises a brow, “Were you now?”

“Unfortunately,” Fareeha says, immediately regretting her word choice, “I don't think Dad can help me out with this one.”

“Well,” Ana sets down her cup, “Would you care for tea, dear, before we start?”

 _No._  “Yes, please,” answers Fareeha, as if the both of them did not know that she vastly prefers coffee.  To refuse would be uncouth, and her mother is similarly socially obligated to ask.  This is the way things are between them now: they are not at ease with each other, must bind themselves up in custom and tradition in order to comfortably—or even nearly so—hold a conversation.

They exchange the standard social niceties as if they were distant acquaintances and not two people whose identities were for too long far too bound up in one another, as if they were not mother and daughter, as if they did not work together on a daily basis.  As they do so, Fareeha slips back into Arabic, ceding the advantage English would give her were they to fight—a gesture of goodwill, and hopefully a clear sign that, no matter how unpleasant her mother’s answers are to hear, she will respect them for what they are.

When the socially scripted portion of their conversation ends, Fareeha falters.  Although she has considered at length how to broach this subject, when the moment at last comes she finds that none of the many ways she considered seems suitable, any longer. 

So Fareeha simply says it, no fanfare, no lead in, no real excitement in her voice, even, only states the fact for what it is: “Angela and I intend to become parents.” 

(Said that way, it sounds almost cold, she knows, but how else could she say this to her mother?  She is afraid, still, to be excited for this—particularly in front of Ana, to whom she fears explaining exactly what motherhood might mean to her, why it is so important, lest it seem cruel, and is afraid, too, of hurting her mother, or the both of them, by somehow dredging up the past.  It is a difficult thing, to be happy about becoming a mother when she sits in the same room as her own mother, with whom her relationship has been so fraught, yet she _is_ , even if she fears showing it.)

“I see,” says her mother, and her reaction is somehow better and worse than what Fareeha expected—she is not hurt, in any way, but neither does she seem as excited as Fareeha expected she might be, given the number of unsubtle hints her mother has made about her (lack of apparent) interest in reproducing.

There is silence and then, after her mother takes another sip of her tea she sets it down, right hand coming to rest seriously on the table, “Is this something you want?”

“Of course!” Fareeha answers, and tries not to feel hurt that this is the first thing her mother asked, because Ana is only looking out for her in doing so, but still—the question hurts, not in the least because she can only speculate as to why that would be the _first_ question her mother asked, but her hypothetical answers are all unpleasant.

“Good,” says her mother, and not _I’m sorry,_ or _I asked because_.  Her mother has always been too self-assured for apologies or explanations, and although it can grate on Fareeha, it is almost a relief, now, to see Ana falling back into this old habit with her—not dancing around her, or the situation, but being wholly herself.  It is, truthfully, a greater vote of confidence than any other her mother might have given.

“Yes,” agrees Fareeha, for wont of anything more meaningful to say, still unsure of how to reach the heart of the matter, still leery of asking her mother for advice, even after so many years have passed since things between the two of them initially turned sour.

“Good,” Ana repeats, “But you want my advice.”  Fareeha nods in confirmation, and her mother hums in consideration before adding, “That certainly doesn’t sound very good, dear.”

A part of Fareeha wants to argue, but her mother is right, Fareeha would not come to Ana for advice in anything but desperation, and so her being here is, objectively, a very bad sign.  “We can’t agree,” says she, “On how to go about it.”

“How hard can it be?” her mother asks her, “Only one of you has a uterus.”

“Mum!” Although Fareeha knows that her mother means it innocently—she is only being blunt, as she tends to, and has always been respectful of Angela’s identity—it is still uncomfortable to hear it stated as such, knowing as she does now how strongly Angela would object to such an observation being voiced, how uncomfortable it would make her.

(Never mind that Fareeha made the same mistake less than a week prior; now that she knows that such an implication distresses her wife, it bothers her, too, to hear it.)

“I’m sure you already realized this, Fareeha,” Ana says with some humor in her voice, “But you weren’t exactly planned.  I’m not sure how much more advice I can give you on the subject, outside of the obvious.”

“I don’t want your advice on _conception!_ ” Fareeha’s voice sounds strangled even to her own ears as she says it.  She is an adult, she reminds herself, and she should not be embarrassed to discuss reproduction with her mother—yet it is still, somehow, mortifying.  “Angela wants to _adopt_.”

There is no mistaking the disappointment in the way her mother’s lips twitch.  “Well,” says she, “I’ll love any child you have, Fareeha, but are you sure about this?”

“I’m not,” Fareeha says, “Which is why I’m here—I need your help convincing Angela that I should get pregnant.”

“I don’t think,” Ana says, in a voice that tells Fareeha she is trying very hard to be tactful about this, “That Angela would appreciate it if I voiced my thoughts on the matter.”

(It is something of an understatement—Fareeha has, by now, heard from both sides about more than a decade of professional disagreements, and knows that although her mother and her wife respect one another, and were reasonably close prior to Ana’s ‘death’, any perceived intervention by her mother into her married life would make her wife most unhappy.)

“No, she definitely wouldn’t.”  A pause while Fareeha takes another sip of the tea her mother offered her.  “Which is why I’m not asking you to intervene.  I just want to be able to assure her that a pregnancy won’t disrupt my life—or work—too much, after maternity leave is over.”

A more serious frown from her mother, then, “It will.”

“You were back on the front lines within a month of my birth, though.”  Fareeha does not mean to argue, told herself she would not, but she is confused—certainly, having an infant did not stop her mother from going into the field.

“I didn’t have a choice, Fareeha,” her mother says, and perhaps it should not surprise Fareeha to hear it, but it does, “The world was ending.”

(When her mother says it that way, it seems so obvious, but Fareeha grew up watching her mother leave, seeing her pack her bags to fly off to be stationed on another continent for weeks, sometimes months, and that was years after the Crisis ended.   Reconciling what Ana says with the emotional truth of her childhood—that it _felt_ like it was easy for her mother to leave her, when she felt she needed to, when her job asked it of her, when she wanted to—is not a simple task.  Looking back, now, as an adult, it is easier to see the hints that her mother may not have wanted to leave any more than Fareeha wanted her to, but it has been so long, now, since she was that child, that this realization is not comforting, and instead she finds herself hurting for her mother.)

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha says, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t be,” her mother dismisses it easily, “You didn’t cause the Crisis.”  For a person as burdened by regrets as her mother is, Ana is always quick to wave away any discussions of past hurt—as if by avoiding giving voice to it, she might avoid having ever felt it.  Despite disapproving of this practice, Fareeha will not force the issue.

Another lull of silence, for what can she say to that?  Once, she always knew precisely what to say to her mother—even if only so that she could say the thing that would hurt the most—and now, it is not so simple.  She has long since forgotten how to be a daughter to her mother.

(This ought to feel better, ought to be more natural than fighting, sitting in silence with her mother as she is, and yet, it is not so.  Fighting comes easily to the both of them, has been drilled into them over the course of years—neither of them has ever been taught what to do with peace.  At least when they were arguing with one another, she knew what to say, did not feel so _helpless_ as she does now _._ )

Still, it falls to her to speak first; patience is something which Ana has never lacked, and Fareeha always has.  “Really what I'm asking is...” she starts, and trails off, “Well, I don't know, actually. I just want to know that I'm not making a mistake, I guess.”

Ana does not offer her a concrete answer, although it is perhaps unfair for Fareeha to expect one of her, given that no question was directly asked, “Do you feel like you're making a mistake, Fareeha?”

“No,” says she certain of that much at least.

“Then you aren't,” her mother says, before she can continue.  “Hesitating and second-guessing will get you nowhere, or worse than.”

When she speaks, Ana's hand moves to brush back the hair that covers her eye—a move that Fareeha is not entirely sure that she is conscious of, as if her words were a reminder, somehow.

“That simple?”  Things rarely are, are least in Fareeha's experience, but her mother has always preferred absolutes, trapping herself in them when she runs up against a rather more nuanced world.

“I never once regretted you,” Ana tells her, and she feels almost pinned by her mother's gaze, the eye contact making it clear just how very sincere Ana is in saying this.

(Only a few years ago, Fareeha would not have believed such a statement, would have been certain that her mother was lying to her—to what end, she would not have been able to say, but for some reason surely, because it would have been impossible to reconcile such a statement with the way being around her mother made her feel.  Now, she knows the words are true.)

There is no need to question the statement, and Fareeha does not want to, does not want to throw back in her mother's face a thousand painful things the two of them said to one another, not when her mother is being honest with her.  Even so, the honesty does not make hearing it any easier.  Despite the love her mother always held for her, and the love she held for her mother, they were still able to hurt one another.  Given the context of the conversation, it is not terribly reassuring.

“I don't know if that helps,” she admits, deciding that lying to her mother could not possibly be of any benefit to either of them.  “What if loving them isn't enough?”

“Then you keep trying,” Ana answers, “You have more than enough experience with that already, and you're nearly as stubborn as I am.  You'll do fine.”

( _Better_ , her tone seems to say, _than I did._ But Fareeha does not know that she believes that —after all, her childhood was incredibly happy, and it was not until her late teenage years that she and her mother began to fight.  Given that she shares the same concerns for the future of her hypothetical child that her mother did with her, and given, also, that she does not know of an alternative way of being a mother, Fareeha fears history repeating itself.  But she cannot tell her mother that, cannot say that her mother was right about war, about what it would do to her, because Ana knows already, and it would only hurt the both of them to acknowledge that she was right, but Fareeha is still happy to have made the decision that she did, would do it again.)

“So you think I should do it, then? Have a baby?”  Despite her mother's reassurance that Fareeha would be a better mother than she herself was, Ana has yet to say that she agrees with the decision.

“Yes, dear,” says she, “But,” and then she pauses to take a sip, and Fareeha is left, again to worry, “I do think you need to be more realistic about how much things will change, once the baby is born.  You don't actually want to be right back in the field after having a child, trust me.  Adjusting your suit to a post-pregnancy body isn't going to be nearly as easy as my being issued a larger set of fatigues was, and flying seems far more physically demanding than lying still to snipe.  Going back into the field as early as I did was painful, and dangerous, and you really ought to reconsider, if you really do intend to return as quickly as I did.”

Now it is Fareeha's turn to frown, because although she did not mean, by pointing out earlier how quickly her mother returned to active duty, that she intended to do so in quite the same timeframe, the reality of getting back into shape after having a child is now something that both Angela and her mother have brought up, and she has, admittedly, been so focused on the thought of being pregnant, and the resulting child, that she has not truly given thought to how long afterwards the pregnancy will continue to impact her body—particularly if, as Angela warned it might, something were to go wrong.  Willing as she is to be pregnant, to experience bringing a child into the world, she does not know how she will do with recovery.

(Even that concern is not enough to stop her from wanting to experience pregnancy, of course, but it does temper her excitement somewhat.  She has worked hard to be in the condition she is in now, strong as she is and well capable of defending others.  To give that up, if only for a few short months, and to have to work to regain it, will be difficult, will be frustrating, will be yet another demand on her time as she cares for her baby.  It is something to prepare for, even if it will not stop her.)

“Don't worry,” says she, “I don't think I'll try and be back quite that quickly.”

“And who will be taking care of the baby, once you're back on missions?  Babies need stability; even if they’re in daycare, they'll need one of you to be there for them every day, at least for the first year or so,” her mother tells her.  “I was lucky; your father leads a far less dangerous life than we do, and he was willing to set aside any career ambitions that involved travelling until you were old enough to stay with a more distant relative for a week.  I doubt Angela will want to do the same.”

This, finally, is enough to give Fareeha pause.  Knowing that babies are require more work than children is one thing, as is accepting that burden for herself—but she has not been fair in assuming that Angela would be willing to do the same.  When she thought the both of them wanted a baby, it made sense that she would be out of the field whilst pregnant, and that afterward it would be Angela's turn to stay on base for a time with their child, but if Angela does not want an _infant_ , then that changes matters a good deal.

“I—” she starts, and isn't certain how to continue.  The cup of tea before her is finally empty.  “I need to think about that.” Another pause, “Thank you,” she says, both because it is polite, and because her mother's advice was, in fact, quite helpful.

“You're welcome,” Ana says, and then, “Would you care for another cup of tea, dear?”

“No, thank you,” says Fareeha, comfortable enough this time to refuse, although she does so in English.  “I should probably get going, soon, honestly.”

“Of course,” her mother replies, likewise switching languages.  “You'll figure this out, inshallah.”

Despite her mother's sincerity, the statement is not terribly reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i deleted a line in here where ana thinks fareeha is asking for conception advice and is basically like, "idk, u were an accident. supposedly orgasming makes u more likely to get pregnant which is probably why it was ur father who--" and fareeha is like MUM NO
> 
> the tea vs coffee debate is real and based on a decidedly unscientific twitter poll we are all on the opposite side from our parents. so ana being a canon tea drinker means fareeha likes coffee (which leaves room for bad pick-up lines to angela based on egyptian coffee drinking convention)
> 
> anyway, thats all for this week, i think! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so its been two weeks bc i was 1) out of town... staying w someone... and forgot my laptop like a dumbass.... and 2) last wk i was busy 100%ing asscreed in under a week on nightmare--and yes, i did it!--bc the first asscreed is the first game i ever cared enough to 100% and like. means a lot to me blah blah blah
> 
> but anyway im here a little late but like. here.

Here is the truth: Angela has no family.  When her parents died, she became a solitary person, wanting no substitute family, no paltry replacements for the mother and father who had loved her, the community in which she had felt at home.  She has been happy with other people, in other places, but never again has she felt such _belonging_ as she did as a child—in some way, she is always at odds with the people around her, too pacifistic for her fellow soldiers and too willing to defend the actions of the Overwatch members she cares about for her fellow doctors.  Perhaps that is not down to family, not entirely, but certainly she was shaped by the circumstances and community in which she was reared.

Here is the truth: there are people who think of Angela as their family.  The Lindholms are among them; more than once Brigitte has referred to her as an older sister or cousin figure, and she has always demurred, even in the times such things were said in jest.  It is true that they might have been family, once, but through no fault of Brigitte’s own her parents declined to adopt Angela, maintained the distance of family friends, and so she does not think of them as family, not truly, nor will she ever.  What sting of rejection she felt as a young girl has lessened over time, but it will never fully be gone.

Here is the truth: Overwatch is a sort of family.  Few of them will say as much, for fear of coming off as sappy, or corny, or worst of all, insincere, but she is certain that the others have all felt it, at some point or another.  However, her coworkers being a makeshift, largely dysfunctional family does not mean that Angela necessarily feels comfortable confiding in the majority of them.  For an organization that currently operates in secrecy, many of the agents are quite terrible at keeping secrets from one another, and in any case, she is a private person; Angela has little desire to lock eyes with someone over a meeting table and to know that they know more than they need to about her personal life.  At times, she has confided in Genji and Jesse both about a good number of things, but neither of them has the requisite life experience to give useful advice in this situation, and it is bad enough that _Ana_ surely has heard about everything from Fareeha.

Here is the truth: Ana was her family, once.  However, although they may have a closer legal relationship than ever, being now in-laws, and connected to each other through Fareeha, Angela has never been able to forgive Ana for abandoning her, abandoning Fareeha, abandoning their whole Overwatch family.  How can Angela trust her now, when it was she who forced Angela to say, told her _We are a family, we need you_ , only to leave herself when things became difficult?  To have quit when Angela wanted to would have saved her much pain, but Ana did not allow it of her—and she may be better for it, now, may have ultimately met Fareeha because she feels she _cannot_ abandon Overwatch, but staying cost her much, caused her much suffering.  Legally, Ana is her family, but emotionally, things are far more complicated.

Here is the truth: Fareeha is Angela’s family.  With her Angela feels safe, feels whole, feels accepted—but Fareeha cannot be everything to Angela.  It would be unfair to ask that of her, would be bad for the both of them, if Angela had no one but her wife to rely on, emotionally, or if Fareeha were fully reliant upon her for the same.  They must be their own people, even when they are together.  So Angela cannot turn to her for help, now, not when she knows Fareeha has spoken to each of her parents about it already; the last thing she wants is to hurt her wife in any way, or the relationship between the two of them. 

Here is the truth: there is no good answer for Angela, when the matter of family is involved.  It will always be complicated, or painful, or awkward in some way, and she has long since come to accept that.  Of any of those options, it is pain to which she is most accustomed to dealing, and which she knows will only be temporary.  Naturally, then, she finds herself seeking out the most painful option possible when seeking advice in this matter.

Whatever it is that people expect when meeting Ingrid Lindholm, it is rarely the reality; she is not soft-spoken, is not demure, is a professional in her own right, and one who handles the running of her busy home with the same exactness that her husband tunes his machines.  When the war was at its most terrible, and Torbjörn was away working with Overwatch, Ingrid kept their family alive, keeping ahead of Omnic incursions and food shortages, maintaining a sense of normalcy for her ever-growing family.  Before the war, she was a different person—by her own omission—but learning to survive hardened her, made her more assertive than she once was, and less likely to balk from any situation which others might deem uncomfortable; Angela has always found it comforting, that hardness about Ingrid, the direct honesty with which she speaks.  War made both of them that way, and it is nice, in a way, to speak with Ingrid for that reason, all other unpleasantness aside, because Angela feels that Ingrid understands her for who and what she is.

“Hello, Ingrid,” Angela starts, and her voice betrays her nervousness.

When Ingrid greets Angela, her voice is worried, “Who is it?” she asks, not _Did something happen,_ or _Why are you calling,_ or anything of the sort, but “Torbjörn or Brigitte?  Because if it was Brigitte I swear I’ll—”

“Neither!” Angela quickly interjects, “Neither, they’re both well.  Or well as they can be, at least.  Brigitte twisted an ankle two days ago in training but—”

“Thank God,” from Ingrid, and something else in Swedish so quick and low that Angela does not catch it—she knows Swedish, in theory, picked some of it up from the Lindholms along the way, but she is not as good with languages as she would like to be, still speaks with noticeably accented English although she uses it every day.  What was said will remain to Angela a mystery, but what comes next is in English, and clear, “You scared me.  Next time start with what you need.”

“Sorry,” Angela says, more out of reflex than for Ingrid’s benefit, “I needed to ask you a question.”

“You couldn’t ask Torbjörn?” It is not rude—or is not intended to be—is only a straightforward question.

“Ah,” says Angela, “I suppose I could have but… I thought it would be better to ask you.”

“It’s sensitive, then?” Ingrid asks her, amusement coloring her voice—Torbjorn cannot keep a secret for the life of him, and the both of them know that.

“Yes,” says she, and wishes she didn’t sound so nervous when she said it. 

“Well?” Ingrid is not patient in the slightest—and normally, Angela appreciates it, likes when people get to the point, but what can she say here?  Where should she start?

“Fareeha—ähm, Amari, my wife—she and I are going to… or I guess we’re thinking about…”

“I know who Fareeha is, Angela,” says Ingrid, and her voice softens, just a bit, clearly understanding that Angela is struggling here, but not becoming so gentle as to be uncharacteristic, or make her feel pitied.  “What is it that you and she are discussing?”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Angela says, “Including Torbjörn.  _Especially_ Torbjörn.”  He always means well, Angela knows, but what Torbjörn hears he repeats to Reinhardt, who cannot keep anything a secret from anyone, and is quite loud as well.

 “I won’t,” Ingrid agrees, used to such requests after nearly thirty years of marriage, “I know how he can be.”

(It is a relief; the last thing Angela wants is for this to get back to everyone they know, particularly if she and Fareeha decide, ultimately, not to pursue parenthood.  Their relationship is not perfect—no one’s is—but their friends do not need to know the details of their disagreements, particularly ones which might out Angela’s trans status to those who met her after she transitioned nearly twenty years prior.  Ingrid knows, of course, having known her family at the time of her birth, as do several of the old guard, but no one else needs to know, nor does she want them to.)

“We want a child, and we can’t decide,” an understatement, “If we should adopt or have one, ah,” How to say this?  Not naturally, for adoption is not _un_ natural, not traditionally, because something about describing their relationship as _traditional_ rubs her the wrong way as well, “…biologically.”

“A difficult decision,” Ingrid acknowledges, and Angela knows she means it—Ingrid is not the type to use empty platitudes, “But I fail to see how I can help you.”

“I don’t want you to make the decision for me, or give your opinion either way,” starts Angela.

“Good,” Ingrid interjects, before she can continue.

(As confident as Ingrid is in her ability to make decisions for herself, she has always demurred when expected to make decisions for others; she will not be held accountable for the mistakes of others, and prefers that her children—and anyone else seeking her advice—make their own decisions, and face the consequences of them.  This is not to say that she does not give advice one way or the other, only that she does not like to sway people one way or the other; by this same logic she has allowed Brigitte to join the Recalled Overwatch, never  voicing either approval or disapproval of the decision.)

“I just wanted to know—and you and Torbjörn were the only people I could think to ask—is it really so different, adopting and giving birth to a child?”

A moment of silence on the line, uncharacteristic from Ingrid, whose words, while not spoken without consideration, usually come quickly.  Then, “It is,” a pause, a sound Angela cannot identify from the other line, “Of course it is.”

To Angela, it feels as if the air has been sucked from the room, because she struggles, in that moment, to catch her breath.  In asking this, she knew it might be hurt—after all, when she begged them to, in her early teenage years, the Lindholms declined to adopt her, and even when not discussing the Lindholms in specific, it has long bothered Angela, even if the pain has faded over time, that she was never adopted, has long left her wondering why it is she was not good enough to be accepted into anyone’s family.  The idea that nothing she could have done would have made her enough, that adoption was simply, to everyone, the inferior option, is somehow worse.

But even if, for Angela, the conversation has stopped, even if she already has the answer she wanted—or, rather, the answer she did _not_ want, but the answer to the question she asked, nonetheless—it does not mean that Ingrid stopped speaking.  Usually, she is not the type to ramble, or at least not the type to do so in nervousness, as Angela so often does, but she _does_ like to be understood, and will clarify at length when she feels it is necessary, such as now.

“I don’t mean,” says she, “That I or Torbjorn love our adopted children any less, or any differently now that they’re here.  But the process is different, you know, and the ways in which you bond to an adopted child are hardly the same as when you’re pregnant—or, I would guess, when your spouse is.”

“I see,” says Angela, and she _does_ , even if she did not want to admit it before.  It does make sense, especially for the parent giving birth, that bonding would be different.  Prior to birth, and shortly afterwards, a pregnant person’s body’s hormonal response prepares them for motherhood, for caring for a baby.  Angela has heard of surrogates and parents who lose children suffering from Empty Arms Syndrome, knows that there is a level of emotional bonding that is outside the realm of biology when an expectant parent feels their child move inside them; none of this is her area of expertise, or anything near to it—her focus has always been on preventing death, not on creating life—but she is familiar enough with the processes involved that she cannot deny what it is Ingrid says: although the process may be similar enough for her, adopting a child or having Fareeha give birth, it will not be so similar Fareeha.

“Do you?” Ingrid asks—not unkindly, but because she knows Angela well enough that she is aware of the latter’s habit of saying such even when she does not, in fact, understand what it is that is being said to her. 

(Ingrid finds that habit to be ridiculous, and has been trying to break Angela of it for as long as either of them can remember.)

“Yes,” Angela says, “I do.”

“Good, then,” says Ingrid, and then, as if regretting how brusque that sounded, “I’m sure you’re going to be better with a child now than you were at fourteen.”

Inwardly, Angela cringes at the reminder of the time she nearly dropped a five month old Brigitte—another time, she might have laughed, because she is _definitely_ better with babies now, but as it is she just wants this conversation to end, so that she can process what has been said in peace.

“I hope so,” says she, instead.

“It won’t matter,” Ingrid says, “Babies are hardy, and I’m sure if your wife is even a fraction as protective as Ana is she won’t let anything happen.”

“That’s reassuring,” says Angela, when in fact it is quite the opposite.  “Thank you.  I should go now, though.”

“Of course,” Ingrid says, and, “I’m here if you need me.”

(The latter is, of course, not entirely true, and both of them know it, but at least after the time, at twenty-one, Angela had tearfully argued the point, Ingrid no longer says _I’m here if you need anything_.  What Angela needs is not something anyone is willing to give her.)

When the call disconnects Angela finally allows herself to sit down, after what amounts to an hour of nervous pacing, counting both the duration of the call and the not-inconsiderable amount of time it took Angela to psych herself up to making the call at all.  Normally, after finishing a difficult conversation what Angela feels is _relief_ , knowing that the worst is over with, and the fatigue that follows a sustained release of adrenaline, but now there is no such comfort to be had.  Instead, her mind continues to race as she thinks about what Ingrid said, and what it will mean for herself and Fareeha. 

She was wrong, that much is obvious.  Ingrid, who has both adopted children and birthed them, agrees with Fareeha that the two processes are quite different—and, Angela has to admit, it is quite obvious, thinking about it, why it would be for the two of them, and not necessarily for herself.  It is obvious—and not something she wants to think about, or discuss. 

(She cannot change the fact that, unlike her wife, she does not have a choice in whether or not she will bear a child, and dwelling on it will do her little good, or so she tells herself.  Before all of this, she thought that was something she had come to terms with, that it did not matter to her because she prefers adoption to any sort of biological involvement, but she is apparently not quite ready to fully accept that.  Perhaps she should tell Fareeha this—but what could Fareeha do?  What would come of telling her wife, other than perhaps causing unnecessary guilt or stress?  No, better to forget it, to swallow her feelings on the matter until she once again forgets them entirely.  She does not want that impossible jealousy to color Fareeha’s own experience of parenthood, for neither of them can do anything to mitigate it.)

If Fareeha is right, however, there is another problem—she does not know how, then, she can ask her wife to sacrifice the opportunity to experience pregnancy, just because she would prefer adoption, because her own experiences have biased her towards it.  As unfair as it feels that Fareeha asks her not to adopt, she _can_ still do something for the orphans of the world, whether she is mother to one or not; there is no half-measure for pregnancy, no similar avenue available to Fareeha.  Who is she to deny her wife that experience categorically?  Yes, her concerns about recovery and complication are real ones, but in the end, if Fareeha accepts those risks, it is _her_ body, and not Angela’s, which will suffer for it, and _her_ decision to make.

She slumps further down in the chair in which she is seated, as if relaxing her posture would do anything to calm the rest of her, and accidentally sends it rolling back a foot in her empty office.  It is quite the conundrum, for she feels guilty putting her own desires above Fareeha’s own—and yet, she knows that if she acquiesces, here, cedes her own plans for parenthood, watching on in envy (if that is what she feels; she is not quite sure) whilst Fareeha is pregnant, or thinking while they prepare for the birth of their baby of the children out there who, like her, need a family, she will not be happy, will make the both of them unhappy by so feeling.

But Ingrid agreed with Fareeha, and if anyone can be trusted to give her their unbiased opinion, it is Ingrid.

Here is the truth: Angela wanted, once, to call Ingrid her mother, and for that reason it is all too easy to obey her, to do what she believes Ingrid is saying is best.

(Here is the truth: Ingrid does not want obedience from her children, she wants them to hear her advice but to think for themselves—something Angela, too eager to please her, never did, always doing what she thought Ingrid wanted of her.)

Here is the truth: Angela’s family will never be a perfect, happy, whole one, not in the way she wants, but Fareeha’s still could be.  Who is she to prevent that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ingrid was... interesting to write bc i was like. who would be happy enough w torb to last like at least 2.5 decades??? and from there find a characterization that wasnt totally centered around "shes torbs wife" which. idk hopefully went well
> 
> lmk what u think and ill... belatedly reply to comments (but hopefully soon!) as im gonna be gone tmrw and sunday since once again ppl i know irl are making me like... leave the house... (nah jk the trip was my idea and will be fun)
> 
> hope ur all doing well <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late update bc of let ana fuck week/wanting a second opinion/league worlds (jensen outsold)

After speaking with her mother, Fareeha’s first intention is to speak with Angela, to admit that her wife is right—she did not thoroughly consider the ways in which a pregnancy, an _infant_ would change their lives, and it would not be fair for her to choose that for the two of them, at least not without further discussion as to the logistics of parenthood.  If Angela does not want to stay out of the field in order to care for a baby, Fareeha knows she will have to consider for herself whether or not she is willing to do the same, in addition to the time off required with a pregnancy.

When, later in the evening, she tries to broach the subject, however, Angela shuts her down before she can even begin, saying that she herself has not yet had enough time to consider their conversation the prior day. 

Instead, they talk about everything _but_ the future: a movie Jesse mentioned in passing, which both of them saw many years before, their impressions of the film and recollection of the plot details differing quite a bit; the volume of poetry recently purchased by Fareeha, which Angela read only a small section of, but whose questions cause Fareeha to reconsider her interpretation of a passage; a paper Angela has been sent to peer review which she is certain was written by a particular researcher whom she despises, her gleeful discussion of the paper’s many methodological shortcomings amusing Fareeha, despite the latter’s relative unfamiliarity with the finer points of nanobiotic healing and medical ethics.

It is nice, not to worry about the question of their future for a few hours, to simply _be_ with one another, and to know that, no matter what happens, they are happy together, just the two of them.  It is nice to speak about other things, and not to worry about upsetting each other when doing so, not to have to think too hard about phrasing and implications and the thousand little ways in which one can unintentionally cause harm.  It is nice to truly relax, for the first time in several days, and to be reminded of all the little reasons why she loves her wife, loves being with her and looks forward to a future with her, _any_ future with her, for her life is better with Angela in it.

Perhaps it is _too_ nice, because the next day comes, and passes, and Fareeha cannot bring herself to mention, again, the question of the future of their family, would much rather enjoy relative peace for just a little longer.

(A part of her thinks it would not be such a bad thing, to grow old like this, just the two of them, even if it is not what she has always thought she wanted for her future.  She would rather they be together and happy than apart, for she struggles, now, to imagine being content with being alone ever again.)

So, she does not say that she is reconsidering her prior assumptions, does not bring up her conversation with her mother, and the more time passes without her having done so, the more difficult it is for her to even consider mentioning it.

What she wants is to do what will make the both of them happiest, and while it is only a short-term solution, not discussing the matter seems to be much easier than potentially arguing yet again, and if she does not broach the subject, she is relatively certain Angela will not do so either.

Most of the time, she would be right to assume so, for it usually falls to Fareeha to begin difficult conversations; both her wife and her mother have a terrible habit of running from their problems—Ana doing so far less figuratively than Angela, who simply uses work as an escape—and Fareeha, being the sort of person who would actually rather like to see her problems solved, has long since mastered the art of convincing people to discuss topics which make them uncomfortable _without_ making them feel cornered. 

It is a surprise, therefore, when it is her wife who is the first to once again mention the question of children.

They are in the garden, the mid-afternoon sun warm on their backs but not so hot as to be uncomfortable, and Angela is frowning contemplatively at the sunflowers Fareeha insisted that they plant, despite the fact that, unlike her wife’s portion of the garden, they are not harvestable.  A minute passes, and then two, and Fareeha wanders closer, from where she stood near Angela’s cabbages, to ask what her wife is thinking so hard about.

“Sunflowers were my first plant,” says she, not turning to look at Fareeha.  “I was four or five, I think, and I don’t remember if it was my parents’ idea or mine that I should try gardening—I don’t remember anything about the experience at all, really, except for the fact that, in the end, the sunflowers grew to be taller than even my parents, which seemed to me at the time to be impossibly large.”

Fareeha looks at her own sunflowers, scarcely over a meter in height, crosses her arms and says, “I guess mine are underachievers, then.”

 “Yes,” agrees Angela, before adding, only half-teasing, “Hopefully our child won’t inherit your gardening abilities.”

“They’re alive!” Fareeha points out—and it is worth mentioning, really, is a noticeably better result than last year’s attempt, even if her decision to say that is actually an attempt to divert attention from the topic of _their child_ , which she is still certain at that point that Angela did not intend to mention.

“Barely,” her wife says, and then, still not looking at her, “I’m sorry.”

“You really don’t have to apologize,” Fareeha replies, rather bewildered, “The fact that I don’t have a green thumb isn’t exactly—”

“Not about the _plants_ ,” Angela turns, then, to look at her, “About the child.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, entirely too surprised by the fact that Angela decided to bring this up of her own volition to formulate a coherent response.

A moment of silence passes, before she remembers that she ought to be replying, and she says, “You really don’t have to be.”

What she intends, is to follow that statement up with an apology of her own, with an acknowledgement that she did not fully consider the many ways in which infants differ from children, and how that might be something which Angela does not find agreeable, with an invitation to discuss the logistics of such so that they can decide if having a baby is even something they _can_ to commit to.

Instead, while she is still gathering her thoughts, Angela speaks first, “I _do_.  I didn’t think about how different it would be for you, being pregnant rather than adopting.  I was too focused on the end result—how that would be the same—and overlooked the process.”

“To be fair,” Fareeha says, “I don’t think I really voiced my concerns very well.”

An understatement—she still regrets that she made her wife feel as if adoption were inferior, knows how sore a spot that can be for Angela.

“Still—ignoring the methods and focusing only on results is bad science.  I should know better.”

Fareeha takes two steps forwards, takes a hold of one of Angela’s hands, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of it—or trying to, the movement made clumsy by their thick gardening gloves.

“Well,” says she, “It’s probably a good thing, then, that we won’t be putting our baby up for peer review.” 

 _Our baby_ , she says, and it was not intentional, particularly given that she has spent the last handful of days coming to terms with the fact that they may not, in fact, end up with a _baby_ at all, but despite that, despite the fact that she is worried about Angela’s reaction to her having said that, it still feels _right_ to her to say it, is still, ultimately, what she wants.

To her surprise, Angela does not pull her hand away, or frown, or otherwise give any indication that the statement has displeased her, but instead says, “That’s actually what I meant to talk about—our baby, that is, not peer review.”

Fareeha almost says _No kidding_ , but thinks the better of it, waits for Angela to collect her thoughts and continue—they have had enough trouble, already, with miscommunication, with speaking before knowing what it is the other truly means.

Fareeha waits—but nothing more is forthcoming, and she is not patient, and when it becomes apparent that Angela is, in fact waiting for some response to her, she asks, “What about our child?”

(This time, the decision to say _child_ and not baby is conscious, a signal to Angela that she is open to discussing a future in which they adopt, even if it is not her preference.)

 “Baby,” Angela corrects instantly, “That’s—that’s what you really want, isn’t it?”

“It is, yes,” Fareeha confirms, because there is little sense in being dishonest here, she _does_ have a strong preference, even if she is more open, now, than she was a week ago, to considering the alternative.

Angela’s gaze moves away from her face, to a point somewhere behind her, and Fareeha is certain that she is not going to like whatever is said next—her wife tends to avoid eye contact when breaking bad news.

“I still don’t know what I want,” Angela admits, “Or I do, but…”

“But?” Fareeha prompts.

“I want you to be happy,” Angela says, “And I want to do whatever makes you happiest.  But I _also_ want to adopt, still, because I told myself, when I was younger, that if I was ever able to, emotionally and financially, I would, because I didn’t want anyone else—” She takes an unsteady breath, “Because it feels right, and I don’t think that desire is going to go away.”

Without thinking, Fareeha moves a hand to cup Angela’s face, tilting it upwards towards her.  In theory, it is a comforting gesture, but she forgot, for a moment, that she was wearing gardening gloves, and now there is dirt on her wife’s cheek and jaw.

“Sorry,” she says, tries to wipe it off, uses the few seconds that buys her to consider what it is she ought to say next.

“It’s fine,” Angela tells her.

“It isn’t,” says she, and suddenly she is no longer talking about the dirt.  “I want you to be happy, too, and if that means adopting, then—”

“No,” Angela cuts her off, firm but not unkind, “You told me you wanted to be pregnant.”

“I did,” Fareeha says, not sure why this is so difficult, when she is only trying to do what is best for Angela, “I _do_ , but if you wouldn’t be happy, that way, then I’d rather we adopted.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Angela insists.

“Isn’t it?”  Why should it not be?  Wanting to do what will make the two of them happiest does not _feel_ complicated, feels like the most normal and natural thing in the world.

“It isn’t,” her wife repeats, “I don’t want to—to deprive you of that experience.  It’s important to you.”

Part of Fareeha is touched, for she knows that Angela means well, but the greater part of her is frustrated, “You wouldn’t be depriving me of anything,” says she, “I’d be choosing not to—and that should be my decision.”

“You’re right,” Angela agrees, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”  Angels shifts her weight from one foot to the other before continuing, “I’m just worried that if we adopt, you’ll be happy at first, and things will seem fine, and then ten years will pass, or fifteen, or twenty, and one day you’ll look up and realize that you regret not having been pregnant, even if you love our child, and it will be far too late for either of us to do anything about it.  What happens then, Fareeha?”

“I don’t know,” Fareeha admits, “But we don’t know if that will even happen.”

“We don’t know that it _won’t_ , either,” Angela’s voice is tight, tense, and Fareeha cannot help but think, as a bird trills somewhere in the distance, that this is very much the wrong atmosphere to be having this conversation in.  “I don’t want you to choose anything for my sake, if it means you might regret it.”

“Angela,” Fareeha frowns, “I can’t guarantee that I won’t regret _any_ decision that I make.  Neither can you, for that matter.”

(She tries not to think about her mother’s claim, when the two of them spoke, that she never regretted her decision to have Fareeha, despite everything.  As much as she finds her mother’s self-assurance galling, at times, as much as she hated it in years past when Ana told her with such certainty that Fareeha _would_ regret her decisions, would not find happiness as a soldier, would only be hurt, she finds herself wishing, now that she had some of her mother’s certainty.  But for once, Ana has never hesitated, has always known her path immediately, while Fareeha often doubts, even if she would never allow anyone else to know that she does so.)

“No,” says Angela, “I know that.  But if you do this for me—who’s to say you won’t come to resent me for it, later?”

What Fareeha wants to say is this: _I could never resent you_ , and certainly it feels like the truth, when she thinks the words, because she knows herself to be forgiving, knows that if she could forgive her mother for everything, then there is not much which would be outside the realm of tolerability for her, in the end, if she believes someone acted with good intentions, and she was the only person hurt by it.  But she knows, also, that just because she has been able to forgive her mother does not mean that she _did not_ resent her, at any point, and just because she can forgive something does not mean that it will not hurt her, in the meantime.

What Fareeha wants to say is this: _I’m doing this for both of us_ , and that, too, sounds right, because Fareeha made the offer to adopt because she wants the two of them to stop fighting, and to be happy with one another.  However it, too, is untrue—she is making the decision not because it will make the both of them happy, but because it is what Angela wants, and she would rather that she learn to accept something than force her wife into the same position.

What Fareeha wants to say is this: _I want to adopt, too,_ and it is almost true—she wants a child, and would not mind having one which they adopted, but she wants, also, to be pregnant, just the once, for reasons she cannot entirely explain to Angela, who lacks the cultural context to fully understand why it would be so meaningful for Fareeha. 

Instead, what Fareeha says is, “You’re right.” 

She does not mean, of course, that she _will not_ be able to guarantee, later, that she shall not come to regret her decision, but simply that, at present, she cannot do so, that she needs, still, time to consider _why_ it is she wants what she does, to decide if she can accept for herself adoption not because it is what she thinks Angela wants, but because she genuinely believes it to be the best decision.

(Surely their child deserves that much, to know that they were no one’s second choice, were not a compromise, someone settled for.)

A sigh from her wife, “I was afraid I was.”

“That isn’t a certain no, Angela, I just need more time to think about this.  I just don’t want to rush into this.”

“I know,” Angela tells her, drops the trowel from her left hand to clasp it around their already joined right hands, “I’m not angry at you; I almost made the same mistake.  And I still haven’t ruled out a baby, really, I just—I need time, too, to make sure my own reasons are the right ones.”

Hearing that _is_ a surprise for Fareeha, who has, in the days since speaking to her mother, managed to nearly convince herself that a part of Angela’s objection to a pregnancy was the resulting _baby,_ and not simply the means by which their child would come into their life.  She realizes, now, that Angela never said any such thing, which ought to be a relief, but only complicates the matter further, for now the decision to pursue pregnancy over adoption is no longer a purely logistical one, is not a question of how long Fareeha would be willing to set aside work for maternity leave, if Angela too, is to be involved.

“Of course,” Fareeha says, and then, “Thank you.”

(She does not specify for what, is not herself entirely sure which to thank Angela for: that she stopped Fareeha from making a decision in haste, or the admission that she might, yet, come to agree with Fareeha.)

“You’re welcome,” Angela says with a smile, and leans in to kiss Fareeha.

Again, without thinking things through as much as she should, Fareeha accepts the kiss, and does not realize her mistake until Angela pulls back and, opening her eyes again, begins to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

A rather undignified snort from Angela, and then, “I’m sorry,” another laugh, “I didn’t realize I got dirt on my face at some point and now—now it seems I’ve gotten it on you too.”

Rather than admit that the dirt was, in fact, her own fault, Fareeha gives her best, most charming grin and says, “Well, if we’re both already dirty, I suppose there’s no reason we shouldn’t get clean together.”

“You’re terrible,” Angela tells her, “And contrary to what you seem to think, sweaty, dirty, and smelling of fertilizer is _not_ your most appealing look.”

“All the more reason for the both of us to shower,” she really is only teasing, only wanting to keep things light, but it is nice to see the easy, relaxed smile on her wife’s face, all of the earlier tension and worry forgotten, now.

Walking back inside, dirty gloved hand in hand, Fareeha feels considerably more hopeful than she did only a few hours before.  Perhaps she does not know, yet, how things will work out, but she is certain that they _will_ , one way or another, and that is enough for her.

Their worries can wait for another day, will have to.  For now, they are happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me pretending like after another 60 yrs of global warming it wont be unbearably hot in gibraltar in late spring... f
> 
> anyway hope u enjoyed and are having a great weekend


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol i meant to post this last week and??? idk what even happened. like i sent it to emilia and forgot about it... so im posting this today and this weeks chapter either tmrw or sunday. sorry

With the exception of Saturdays, on which Angela rises early to go to synagogue, it is always Fareeha who wakes first when they are staying on base.  Of the two of them, it is Fareeha who is the morning person, waking with far too much enthusiasm for Angela’s taste, and before their engagement she always rose a full hour and a half before Angela.  These days, Angela wakes only 50 minutes after Fareeha on Monday through Friday in order to join her wife for the end of her morning run, having agreed to do so in exchange for a promise from Fareeha that she would no longer smoke.  As far as compromises go, it is not such a terrible one, being good for the health of the both of them, but it has certainly made Angela appreciate sleeping in on Sundays all the more, and Fareeha knows not to wake her barring a life-threatening emergency.

Or she _ought_ to know.

Yet Angela finds herself being woken by her wife nonetheless, and 08:00 may be two hours later than she rises any other day of the week, but it is a _Sunday_ , and she had rather planned on waking sometime after 09:30, perhaps even 10:00, so she is not at all pleased by the development.

“ _What?_ ” says she, not opening her eyes lest the light from the window get in them, and therefore having to blindly try to swat away the finger poking at her side.

“Good morning to you, too,” Fareeha sounds entirely too amused as she says it, and Angela desperately wishes she could pull the blanket over her face and fall back asleep, because she is _certain_ this is not an emergency, or even vaguely urgent, can tell from the way Fareeha woke her, poking at her side, and the tone in her voice, but unfortunately falling back asleep is never an option for her once the sun has risen, and she is aware enough, now, of her hunger and need for a shower that she is waking up.

Still, she does not have to be _enthusiastic_ about it.  Rather than properly reply to her wife, she just grumbles, not even entirely certain what words she would have formed if she had the will.

“Angela,” Fareeha whines.

She does not deign to respond, other than to roll over and nestle further into the mattress, thinks that maybe if she _really_ tries she just might be able to find sleep again—or at least feign it long enough to have a few more minutes of restful silence.

“Please,” her wife says, “I _need_ you.”

 _Ugh._ Is that what this is about?  “We had sex twice yesterday,” says she, and firmly, “You can take care of yourself.”

A noise from Fareeha, the sort of strangled half-laugh that Angela associates with embarrassment, “That’s not what I meant!”

The assumption, Angela thinks, was not at all an unreasonable one.  But being incorrect does leave her wondering what it is her wife _does_ want, so she forces herself to sit up and ask.  At this rate, there is little point in trying to get back to sleep.

“What _do_ you need, then?” she asks, after having sat up rather more slowly than strictly necessary.

“It’s the croissants,” Fareeha tells her, “I don’t know what happened but—they’re terrible.”

 _Of course._ Lately, Fareeha has tried her hand at baking, and while she is a serviceable enough cook, the artistry of baking seems to escape her.  Why she attempted something as delicate as croissants is beyond Angela.

“I’ll give them a look,” she promises, “But give me a minute to get up and dressed first.  It’s too early, yet.”

“Thank you,” Fareeha tells her, and leans in for a light kiss before quickly drawing back—she still tastes vaguely of toothpaste, and so Angela is certain that her own morning breath must have been quite off-putting.  She feels, however, that Fareeha deserves as much for having woken her up.  “I’ll go make us something else to eat while you get dressed,” Fareeha offers, and Angela nods her agreement, moving slowly to the edge of the bed.

Normally, they take breakfast separately on the weekends, given that they wake at different times, and even during the week they often eat discrete meals on account of their differing tastes and opinions as to what constitutes a breakfast.  Angela wonders, as she washes off, what Fareeha could possibly make that would satisfy the both of them.

Pancakes is, apparently, the answer, and while Angela is not particularly enthused by the choice, she would much rather eat what is offered her than cook for herself, and Fareeha _can_ make pancakes without any problems.

(Undoubtedly, it was Sam who taught Fareeha to make pancakes.  Angela knows from entirely too many mornings with the team that Ana habitually skips breakfast, and on the rare occasions that she was forced to cook it, preferred to make food that was decidedly less bland, such as shakshuka or fuul.  The use of maple syrup, too, is a giveaway.)

“So,” she asks, considerably more interested in conversation now that she is properly awake, and has at least begun to eat, “What happened to your croissants?”

“I don’t know,” Fareeha says, “I followed all of the instructions exactly, but I somehow ended up with rolls.”

Angela’s eyes narrow, “So you’re telling me that you put buns in our oven?” If Fareeha woke her up early solely as the lead up to a terrible joke—

“No,” Fareeha manages through laughter, “But I wish I _had_ said it that way.”

In the time it takes Angela to chew another three bites of pancake—they’re far too thick for her taste—Fareeha manages to stop laughing long enough to collect one of her not-croissants from the oven.

“Oh,” Angela says, after taking a moment to swallow her food, “I see what you mean.  Did you knead the dough?”

“Of course!” Fareeha tells her, “It’s dough.”

“There’s your problem.  Croissants are pastries—if you knead them then you’re overworking the dough.  They can’t flake properly and end up dense.”

“Ugh.  This would be a lot easier if you would help, you know.”

“I’ve told you,” Angela stands as she speaks, moving to the sink to wash her plate, and she raises her voice only just enough to be heard over the water, “The only sort of baking I find relaxing doesn’t involve an oven.”

(Tragically, her Sunday morning habit of wake and baking is a thing of the past—Fareeha does not enjoy the smell, and the effort of getting dressed and going outside to smoke defeats the purpose.  But while Fareeha can escape the smell, Angela’s puns persist.  Given Fareeha’s own sense of humor, she thinks it only fair.)

“Yes,” Fareeha agrees, her voice drawing nearer as she speaks, “But you’re good at it.”

“I’m serviceable,” Angela says, leaning back into her wife’s chest when Fareeha wraps an arm around her waist, “But I wouldn’t call myself good, and I _certainly_ wouldn’t trust myself to teach you.  Why are you suddenly so interested in learning, anyway?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you?” Fareeha asks her, and Angela does not know where this line of questions is going, but she does not like it.

(Her mother did not _teach_ her to bake, exactly, never explained to her the _hows_ or _whys_ of the things she did, only allowed her to assist—as well as a child can—in making things.  Most of what Angela knows she taught herself, years later, trying to save a little taste of her home.  She learned what she needed to, but found the reminder more melancholy than comforting, and now only bakes for yahrzeit.)

“A bit,” she says, and nothing more, not wanting to get into the matter this morning.  She has had more than enough reminders, this week, with discussions of parenthood, of her still-painful memories of her mother.  There is no need to dwell on them now.

“Mum was always too busy to teach me,” Fareeha tells her, and she does not sound sad, exactly, but she is a bit wistful.  “I don’t blame her—saving the world was more important—but all of my cousins learned from their mothers, who learned from my grandmother.  I just thought, when we have a child, it would be nice to pass that on.”

Several objections come to Angela’s mind, not the least among them being that she and Fareeha may also lack the time for such activities, but she settles on something else, “In that case, you can relax.  There’s plenty of time still to learn.”

“I don’t know,” Fareeha says, “If we adopt, they could already be old enough, and if _you_ don’t want to teach them then I’ll have to be ready.”

Moving the last of the clean dishes to the drying rack and quickly rinsing out the sink gives Angela a convenient excuse not to reply for a minute or two.

“It isn’t that I don’t _want_ to,” Angela corrects.  “I didn’t realize that that was what this is about.  I’m just..” she frowns, _Just what?_ , “I’m just uncomfortable teaching anyone.”

“Would you be uncomfortable if our child asked you to?” Fareeha’s tone is not pointed, exactly, but it certainly is not as gentle as it could be.

“Can we have this conversation somewhere else?” Angela asks, rather than answering the question itself just yet.  Standing over the kitchen sink hardly seems the appropriate venue for the discussion they have stumbled into.

(If anything, it is the place in their quarters she would _least_ like to have this conversation, given her habit of drinking a glass of water over it every night after work while she decompresses before speaking to Fareeha.  Normally this is where she collects herself, compartmentalizing the things she has had to see and do that day as best she can before

Fareeha agrees, and Angela finds herself being led to their couch.  While normally they sit with Angela against the arm of the couch, this time her wife takes her place and she is left to lean, instead, against Fareeha.

“I think we need to talk about expectations,” she tells Fareeha, not wanting to turn to face her, and instead opting to rest her head on her wife’s shoulder.  “I know that already that I’ll want what’s best for our child, and to do what I can to make them happy, and I know you will too—”

“Of course,” Fareeha says, clearly thinking that her statement is complete, “That’s—”

“ _But_ ,” she cuts Fareeha off, perhaps more sharply than she intended, wanting to get to the crux of her argument, “There will be things that I just won’t be able to do.”

“Such as?” Fareeha does not sound judgmental, at least not yet, only attentive.

“Going to the movies as a family,” she says, and hopes Fareeha will not ask her to elaborate, “Camping, most likely.  Baking I doubt I’ll ever _enjoy_ , though if I absolutely have to it won’t kill me.  But those are just some of the things I already know I can’t do—I’m sure there are others we’ll discover as we go.”

(They are only the things which are obvious.  She has not been to a movie theater since her parents died, as her family going to one when their town was attacked.  Tents, she can stomach on her own, but seeing children staying in them reminds her too much of her time in temporary ‘housing’ after having been orphaned.  As for baking—it is painful only because of the ways in which she has ritualized it, and she thinks with time that discomfort might be unlearned; it is not _traumatic_ in the sense of the other two examples.)

“That’s fine,” Fareeha says, and it _ought_ to be reassuring, but instead Angela worries that she is not considering the matter deeply enough.  “I’m sure our child will be able to survive just one parent taking them to the movie theater,

“It isn’t just me, though,” she tightens her grip on Fareeha’s hand as she speaks in a way she hopes belies her words and provides some comfort, “What will you do if they come home from school angry and slam a door when you don’t expect it?  Or if they think it’s fun to sneak up on you from behind and grab onto you?  Because even well behaved children can struggle when learning boundaries.”

This, Fareeha has no immediate response to, and though Angela is comforted by the fact that her wife is handling the concern as seriously as it needs to be, she does worry that she might have seemed too harsh.

“I don’t mean that I think we’ll be bad parents,” she clarifies, “I know you’ll be a wonderful mother.  I’ve never questioned that.  And I know both of us will love our child unconditionally, and that we’re in a good position to provide for them I just worry that—”

“—That we’re going to screw our kid up?” Fareeha does not sound angry, but rather resigned, which is _worse._

“No!” Angela is quick to correct her, “We’re definitely going to have a more functional family than most of the people we know.”

“That’s a very low bar, Angela.”  At least Fareeha sounds somewhat amused when she says it.

“That isn’t the point—and even if it were, most of the people we know are still relatively happy, these days.”

(Fortunately, Fareeha does not seem keen to argue that point; the last thing Angela wants to discuss is the abnormal misfortune of the people whom they care about.  While Angela would certainly not class herself as superstitious, it still strikes her as inauspicious to have such a conversation immediately before talking about the future of their child, and is a rather depressing subject besides.  She has always been discomfited by problems she cannot fix, and it is worse when those problems belong to people about whom she cares.)

“What is your point, then?” Again, Fareeha is neither demanding nor sharp, even if she wants to get to the point.  Angela counts herself lucky that her wife is, if not patient, understanding of her tendency to wander from the subject at hand when she is worried.

“I just think we need to be aware that certain things will be harder for us than other parents.  I know we can’t know all of the potential problems before we have a child, but prevention is best practice in more than just medicine.  If we have a plan for if something happens, then—well, we can’t _stop_ it from happening, but we can handle it better.  For our own sake as much as our child’s.”

“I’ll make a list,” Fareeha tells her, tightening the arm she has around Angela’s shoulders in a comforting way.

“A list?” she asks.

“Of things I think might be,” Fareeha seems to consider her word choice for a moment, “… _Difficult_ for us.  I think it’d be better to take time to think about as many scenarios as we can, first, and this way we can make sure we’re both ready for the conversation when it happens.”

(She does not say _unlike last time_ , but she does not have to, either.  Both of them remember very well how the similar conversation about certain sensitivities they had prior to cohabiting ended—with Angela upset after having felt pressed to go into more detail than she was ready to, and Fareeha feeling quite guilty for having unwittingly pressed.  Despite it not being the fault of either of them, they have both been very careful since not to press more than necessary when discussing boundaries, or to wait until they are certain it is an appropriate time to be having such a conversation.)

“Alright,” Angela agrees, “That makes sense. It can wait, though.” For now, she does not want to move from where she is, comfortable in her wife’s arms, and she is in no rush to get anything much done as her Sunday began several hours earlier than she had planned.

“Not too long, I hope?” Fareeha asks her.

“Why?  Do you have plans I don’t know about?” She is teasing, and makes it clear from her tone. 

“No,” Fareeha says, “No, I’d just rather not get too attached to the idea of doing anything else as a family that won’t work for us.”

“Ah,” Angela does feel a bit guilty about that—her being _uncomfortable_ baking is nowhere near the severity of any of the other things they have discussed, even if it is how the conversation began, and she does not want Fareeha to feel badly about having suggested something which is, ultimately, not so terrible.  “I can find some of the resources I used to learn, if that would help?”

“As the croissants have proven,” Fareeha sounds chagrined, “Reading recipes may not be of much help to me, at my current skill level.  I’ll just have to keep trying until I figure it out.”

“I’m sure Ana would help you if you asked,” she suggests, for Ana has far more time now than she did when Fareeha was young.  “She certainly gave Jesse and I a hard enough time about not knowing how to cook, and I think she likes teaching.”

(More accurately, Angela suspects that Ana likes to feel _needed_ , but Fareeha asking for her help in learning something fulfills that desire quite well—and if it has the added benefit of improving Ana and Fareeha’s relationship?  Well, Angela could not be happier.)

“I’ll think about it,” Fareeha says, and that is as good a response as Angela could reasonably hope for. 

“That’s all I’d ask,” Angela says, and then, “Well, and for you to lower your shoulder, a bit.  I think if we stay right here I _might_ yet be able to get those last two hours of sleep you owe me.”

“Or we could _both_ go back to bed—to sleep, that is,” Fareeha clarifies quickly, as if Angela could have imagined them going to bed to do anything _else_ after the conversation they just had.

“I suppose,” says she, “That it might be more comfortable for you than sitting perfectly still for a few hours while I use you as a pillow.  But what’s in it for me?”

“I have it on good authority that my shoulder is not the most comfortable part of me to lie on,” Fareeha tells her, mock serious.

“In that case,” she agrees, “Lead the way.”

Perhaps napping is not quite as restful as having slept in all morning, but falling asleep with her head on her wife’s chest is certainly just as good a feeling as luxuriating in bed upon waking.  About this, she will not complain.

When they wake for the second time, there will be time enough to think about less comfortable things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bc i was writing this i decided that i wanted to make croissants (an 11 hr endeavor) and then when i was baking... vice made a terrible wake and baking joke abt how thats her preferred form of baking... so shoutout to her for that line (tho she really just made me realize ive somehow never made edibles despite that being an overlap of two of my hobbies)
> 
> anyway, hope ur having a good day!! mine kinda sucked cause i had work (unexpectedly... sigh)
> 
> next chapter... ana again!! my wife


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h-hewwo?? i was super busy w life bc nanowrimo + my aunt died + hanukkah (ugh family obligation) + a bunch of other stuff but THEN tuesday i got hit by a car and was like "oh my god i cant die without finishing that fic"
> 
> so here i am

Despite Fareeha’s intent to learn to bake as soon as possible, it is another three weeks until she and her mother are both on base and free at the same time, with one miniature disaster after another keeping one or the other of them busy in the interim. 

During those three weeks, she and Angela have a number of discussions about parenting, about the challenges unique to pregnancy and adoption, about how they can prepare for them.  For all that they _want_ to be parents, and for all their good intentions, they cannot make themselves the sort of people who are naturally ready to be so.  Knowing, as Fareeha does, how easy it is for trauma to echo down from parent to child, they are careful in their discussions to prepare for as many eventualities as they can, and thoroughly so.  They cannot fix themselves—or one another—but they can be ready, best as they are able, to diffuse situations and to mitigate any damage.  As solutions go, it is not a perfect one—but neither are they perfect, and sometimes _good enough_ is still better than one might have dared to hope for.

There is, however, one problem which presents itself, the more Fareeha discusses all possible outcomes with her wife—she finds herself once again growing attached to an idea, to a possible future.  Now, Fareeha does want to adopt, and not only because it would make her wife happy—but she wants, too, to be pregnant and to birth their child.  Now, she worries that whatever decision they make, it will feel wrong, will feel incomplete, will leave her wondering _what if_.

She does her best to push these thoughts from her mind when her mother joins her for breakfast; they have other, more pressing concerns—namely, Fareeha’s string of failed kitchen adventures.

Rather than meeting in her mother’s quarters, they meet in her own, as Ana only returned from Bangkok the night before, and her kitchen is therefore not properly stocked.  As it is a Saturday, Fareeha need not worry about waking Angela, who is not home—although perhaps she need not worry even on a Sunday, for Angela sleeps heavily when she is in her own bed—something which is for the best, as neither Fareeha nor her mother is a particularly quiet person. 

Getting her mother to agree to do this was easy—for all that they have struggled in their relationship, her mother _wants_ to be a good mother, and there was a time when doing ordinary mother-daughter things came naturally, so it is no surprise that Ana would be interested in doing this with her, even if baking was never her preferred bonding activity—but when Fareeha shows Ana the results of her previous efforts, Ana’s enthusiasm is somewhat tempered.

“What,” her mother asks her, looking at a picture of her attempted croissants, “Were these meant to be, exactly?”

“Croissants,” she answers, “Apparently I overworked the dough.”

“I see,” Ana replies, and it is evident from her tone that she does not.  “If you’re trying to make pastries, dear, I can’t help.  Basic cookies were as much as I ever bothered learning.”

“Teta didn’t teach you?” Fareeha does not think of her grandmother, often, but she remembers her making all sorts of delicious sweet things, always having something ready for when her grandchildren would visit—basbousa and baklava and kahk for Eid. 

(Perhaps her grandmother still makes such things; Fareeha would not know.  When she and her mother had their falling out, she lost touch with all of her mother’s relatives—and although she would be welcome back now, theoretically, given that she and Ana have made amends, she does not _want_ to be back in her grandmother’s good graces, not after Ana’s funeral.  Fareeha is proud, still, to be an Amari, and has considered reconciling with some of her aunts, her uncles, her cousins, but her grandmother is not an Amari, and never was.)

Her mother laughs at the suggestion, says, “No, Fareeha, she couldn’t have,” and Fareeha wants to ask what her mother means by that, _couldn’t have_ , but does not want to press too far, knowing that her mother and grandmother, too, have a fraught relationship, and does not have the opportunity besides, as Ana continues, “But we can worry about that later.  It’s better to start with fundamentals.  What did Sam teach you?”

“Mum,” Fareeha says, “You know Dad doesn’t like anyone else in his kitchen.  He told me that I took too much after you to risk letting me try anything more complicated than microwaving.”

“Ya Allah,” her mother says, “And you jumped straight to pastries?”

“I didn’t know there was a difference!” It is a very particular sort of frustration, to realize that one has somehow remained ignorant to something that most other people seem to consider common knowledge, and Fareeha is feeling it now.

“Well,” Ana tells her, “If your father couldn’t teach you, _I_ certainly can’t.  You know he’s a better cook than me.”

Fareeha doubts, somehow, that Ana could not help her.  Her mother has always been a good teacher, has been patient enough to avoid discouraging her pupils but not so gentle that they have no motivation to succeed. 

(Still, there is a sting at the thought of the things her mother never taught her—she is reminded of Jesse telling her about learning to shoot from Ana, how well and willingly she taught him something Fareeha begged to learn.  Even something so simple as this, trying to get a lesson from her mother, is not uncomplicated by their past.)

“Surely,” Fareeha says, not willing, quite, to give up on the idea of Ana teaching her just yet, “You must know _something._ Teta loves baking.”

“Does she?”  Ana sounds far too amused for Fareeha’s liking, but before she can press any further, her mother says, “Well, if you insist on learning to bake—” Fareeha nods, indicating that she does, “—then we can try to make kanafeh.  The dough is premade.  I’m sure it can’t go that terribly.”

One trip to a specialty grocer for the needed ingredient, forty minutes in the oven—during which Angela returned home, smelled their progress, and promptly decided to leave—and 30 minutes left to stand later, Ana is proven decidedly wrong.  Although the pastry itself turned out only slightly overcooked, and otherwise fine—likely due to the fact that the dough was premade—the syrup did not, and by spreading it over the pastry, the two of them ruined all of their hard work, with the resulting mess somehow both soggy _and_ burnt. 

Although her mother is clearly more amused by the outcome than anything, and Fareeha knows she herself ought not to take this so seriously, she cannot help but feel frustrated by the outcome, by the fact that they failed to meet their goal and by how little Ana seems to care, both.

“It isn’t funny,” she protests, when her mother insists on taking a picture of the results for posterity.

“Of course it is,” Ana tells her, and then, “Smile, dear, your father is going to love this.”

“ _Ummi_ ,” Fareeha hates the way protesting to her mother always makes her sound like a child, even to her own ears, “I’m serious.”

Ana does stop, then, considers for a moment before lowering her camera.

(If nothing else, her mother has come to respect her ability to decide what she wants most for herself.  This is nothing so serious as enlisting, but Ana will not push her, for discussions of what Fareeha _ought_ to do, what she ought to accept or to want, are still a taboo subject for the two of them.  Even for something so simple as a picture, her mother will not try to sway her.)

“What is this really about?”  From the way in which her mother steps forwards while speaking, moving closer into Fareeha’s space, she knows that Ana is genuinely concerned.

Frowning, Fareeha shuffles a bit in place, shifts her weight such that she is leaning slightly away from her mother, and huffs out a breath.  There is not a way to say this which does not sound critical of her own upbringing, and the last thing she wants, now, is to cause an argument.  “I just—” a pause to think, “Look, I don’t mean this in a bad way, because I _know_ you were busy, but when I was younger Mariam would talk about baking with Aunt Laila and I just… I was jealous, you know?  Because Aunt Laila learned from Teta and she learned from _her_ mother, and… it’s continuity, Mum.  And I didn’t get that.  I don’t want my baby to grow up thinking that they—why are you laughing?”

(Of course, Ana can never understand what it is for Fareeha to be biracial, to have grown up in two worlds and always worried she belonged to neither, to long for a connection that proved she was just as much a part of her Egyptian family and traditions as her father’s tribe’s, but Fareeha did not expect her to _laugh_.)

“I’m sorry,” her mother says, and she _sounds_ contrite enough, but still, Fareeha is hurt, “It isn’t a funny issue but—Fareeha, haven’t you ever wondered why you’ve never seen your grandmother bake?”

“What?” Teta always has pastries at her house, and several kinds, always offering far too many to her grandchildren and spoiling their appetites.  Surely Fareeha _must_ have seen her baking, at some point, but now that Ana mentions it…

“Your grandmother is a worse cook than _I_ am, and doesn’t have any interest in sweets, besides.  She only ever bought those pastries because you liked them so much.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, and it surprises her.  She never really felt her grandmother cared as much for her as for her cousins, so the idea that she would have gone out of her way to do something for _Fareeha_ is something of a surprise.  “But then where did Aunt Laila learn?”

“The internet, most likely,” Ana explains with a shrug, “Because she certainly didn’t know how when we were growing up.  It might kill her to admit it, though.  With the way she talks, you’d think she was born knowing how to be the perfect wife and mother.”

(There is a bitterness there, between Ana and her nearest sister, and although Fareeha has never been told directly the source of the feeling, she rather suspects that it is similar to her own feelings for her cousin Mariam; although they are close in age, there has never been any doubt that Fareeha is less traditionally feminine than Mariam, less successful at doing the things she has been told women _ought_ to do, and as little as she cares about those things in her daily life, as little as appearances matter to her—it is hard not to feel inadequate, sometimes, is hard to know that in the eyes of some, her cousin will always be a better _woman_ than she, no matter what Fareeha herself accomplishes.)

“I still want to learn,” Fareeha admits, not really knowing what else to say.  In the past few weeks she has fallen rather in love with the _idea_ of baking with her child as a way of connecting them to their culture, and even if such a connection would not, in fact, be part of the legacy she believed it was, she still enjoys the thought of it.

“In that case,” Ana tells her, “You can ask your father for help the next time you visit him.  You have a few years until the baby will be old enough to bake with.”

“Ah,” says Fareeha, “About that.”

In an instant, any humor is gone from her mother’s tone, “Has something happened?” she asks, almost _too_ quickly, as if she were concerned, already, that something might.

“No,” Fareeha assures her, “No, it’s nothing bad.  It’s just—I’ve talked with Angela about it more, and I think we might end up adopting.”

This, too, makes Ana frown, although she is clearly less worried than she was moments previous, “Are you sure?”

(It is no secret that Ana would prefer she have a child the traditional way, even if Fareeha does not doubt that her mother would love an adopted grandchild.  Given that such is Fareeha’s preference, as well, she can hardly judge, knows the myriad of reasons why, culturally, it might seem preferable to her mother that she give birth, and the reasons that are far more personal and far more complicated than that.) 

“Well,” Fareeha considers her next words carefully, “I haven’t ruled out a pregnancy, and I’d still prefer it, I think, but—well, I don’t hate the idea of adoption, and I think I’m more likely to come around than Angela is, so…”

Her mother only frowns deeper, at that.  “This isn’t the sort of thing you should give up for your spouse,” Ana tells her.  “If you give birth, and Angela decides, twenty years from now, that she wishes she had adopted, she can still do that.  You can’t do the same with pregnancy, and I wouldn’t expect her to understand why this is so important—”

“Mum!” Fareeha starts, indignant on Angela’s behalf at the assumption that because she is trans, she would not understand the significance of pregnancy, but Ana does not stop speaking long enough for Fareeha to say anything further.

“—Because she’s biased by her own experience of being orphaned, Fareeha, not whatever you were thinking.”  Her mother pauses, then, as if giving Fareeha the opportunity to object again, should whatever she was going to say still be relevant, before continuing her earlier thought, “You can’t do the same with pregnancy, and I don’t want you to regret compromising, twenty years from now.”

Of course, Fareeha has already thought about this for herself, has turned the question over and over in her mind, but the problem which faces her now is not that it _would_ be a compromise, for the more that she considers it, the more she _wants_ to adopt, genuinely and for herself, not because it is what would make Angela happiest.  The problem is only that she wants to be pregnant, too.

When she voices that thought to her mother, Ana’s reaction is not at all what she expects.

“Fareeha,” her mother’s tone is something she cannot immediately identify, “How long have you been considering this?”

“Almost a month,” she answers, not quite sure where her mother is going with this.

“Almost a month,” Ana repeats, and now amusement is beginning to creep back into her voice, her usual good humor returning, “And it never occurred to you that you could have more than one child?”

“I—” Fareeha starts to defend herself on instinct, and immediately stops, because _no_ , it did not occur to her, somehow. 

Now that Ana says it, it seems so obvious that they might solve their problem in such a way, because multiple child families are hardly abnormal.  But to she and Angela, only children both, such was never a consideration.  That brings with it another host of questions: would Angela want more than one child?  Would they have time for more than one?  What would it be like, to come home to not one small child, but to two, to lift one in each arm and then lean in to kiss her wife on the cheek in greeting?

(In truth, Fareeha is fond of the idea immediately, imagines what it would be like for she and Angela both to have a child which looks more like one of them, and for her to be able to teach one child to play hockey and help the other build model ships with her, and to know that no matter what happens to her, her children will have one another, because she will be able to see how much they care about one another, despite their differences.  Although it is a future she never considered, she is immediately enamored of the idea.)

“You only had me,” she says, after a considerable pause, as if that were enough to explain away her failure to even consider that she might have multiple children.

“That’s true,” her mother tells her, “But if your father had his way, and the Crisis hadn’t happened, you might have had several siblings.”

_That_ is news to Fareeha.  Knowing that she was an accident, it is rather a surprise to think about her parents considering more children, even if they both clearly loved raising her.  She always assumed—evidently incorrectly—that they would not have wanted more.  After all, if they considered it, they never mentioned such a thing to _her._

“Several?” she asks, concerned by the phrasing, as it brings to mind Torbjörn and his many children.

“Yes,” Ana confirms, “Sam joked about wanting our own basketball team, if you were tall, or our own hockey team, if you had been short.”  She laughs, “I think the charm of that idea would have worn off after the second or third was born.”

“Huh,” says Fareeha.  “I guess I just assumed you didn’t have the time for more children, and that things would be the same for Angela and I.”

“We _were_ too busy.  We also had to deal with the Crisis and a trans-Atlantic custody agreement.  I don’t think you and Angela will be facing the same problems.”

“I certainly hope not,” Fareeha says, but she is still stuck on the thought of having had more siblings, still wondering how she never considered her parents might have wanted more than only her.  What would it have been like, not to have been an only child?  How would Angela answer the same question?

Surely, Angela would be amenable to having more than one child—after all, had she had siblings, she would not have been completely alone after her parents died, would at least have had _someone_ in her family with her.  But maybe she is wrong, maybe Angela _did_ consider multiple children, and discarded the thought for reasons that Fareeha has yet to think of, and—

“Speaking of Angela,” Ana interrupts Fareeha’s thoughts yet again, “It would probably be for the best if we cleaned this mess up before she comes home again.”

“Probably,” Fareeha agrees. 

She can worry later about what Angela would think about a second child—for now, she will focus on the task at hand, and try and pretend that she is not already beginning to grow fond of the idea of two children, of the idea of one child to help her with baking while Angela tends to her garden with the other.

(She can worry later, and she _will_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first draft of this before bastet they actually succeeded in cooking so heres a great kanafeh recipe from my family. sorry if its a little confusing, my aunt handwrote it and took a picture of the handwritten recipe and emailed me the picture... as an attachment... rather than typing it up... and her handwriting is bad! plus it was in arabic and si and secondhand from my grandma (who couldnt write it down herself bc she cant read or write) so like. u know. so many layers of potential fuck up here! but anyway at least u know its authentic. also this uses fahrenheit and such bc im in the us rn so my oven is Like That & i just kinda tweaked accordingly. still tastes pretty good to me when i make it
> 
> tear 1/2lb kanafeh dough into small pieces, spread evenly on bottom of a 15x10" jelly roll pan  
> combine 2cups walnuts and 2.5tbsp sugar, sprinkle over kanafeh  
> shake some cinnamon (my aunt just said "the perfect amount" in her recipe lol, and i just have been doing enough that it smells right to me, sorry i didnt measure) over top and 2 or 3tbsp of honey  
> tear 1/2lb kanafeh dough and spread over top  
> spoon 3/4cup of melted butter over top  
> bake for 30-40 min at 375F  
> dont overbake or ull fuck up the flavor, lmao. like it wont just be burned itll be fuuuuuuucked  
> combine 1.5cups sugar, 1 cup water, and 1tbsp lemon juice in a medium saucepan, bring to a boil on medium heat stirring constantly  
> reduce heat to low and simmer without stirring for 15mins  
> add 1tbsp orange blossom water, stir, and cook 2 mins longer  
> spoon syrup over kanafeh immediately after removing from oven  
> let stand 30 mins  
> REFRIGERATE ANY LEFTOVERS... DO NOT LEAVE IT OUT  
> also if u wanna u can substitute rosewater for orange blossom water, and 1/2cup of crushed pistachios makes a great garnish!
> 
> kanafeh is also often made w cheese in the middle instead of walnuts, but 1) i like the walnut version better and 2) egyptians are more likely than syrian ppl to be lactose intolerant so i went w a version i knew for sure fareeha and ana could eat... unlike my family, who are v much able to consume massive amounts of diary
> 
> also yeah i feel like the amari family dynamic has to be at least a little messy like... they DID produce ana... whose response to a single fuckup was to fake her own death... more Thots on this in my other fics
> 
> anyway, happy femslash feb everyone! hope u all have a great day <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof havent updated in so long i temporarily blanked on where the add chapter button was. anyway some stuff abt numbers being Just Right

_4:21.07_ , Angela writes, and underlines the number three times in her notes after doing so.  Normally, the results of this trial, charting the amount of time her nanites require, without a Valkyrie override, to close an open wound of approximately 10cm in diameter, would please her.  Indeed, it should please any scientist; such is statistically significantly faster than her nanites were able to act a year prior, before she set about on improving them, and it is relatively consistent, too, with her previous trials this afternoon, averaging 4:19.97 seconds with a standard deviation of 1.3 seconds.  It should please her, specifically, too, because the numbers involved (421, 419, 7, 97, 13) are all prime numbers.

There is something about prime numbers which pleases Angela, has for as long as she can remember.  Of course, there is nothing _wrong_ with composite numbers, it is simply that, when she notices a prime number, she takes note of it, and it appeals to her.

Perhaps it is that, with prime numbers, the pressure of symmetry is removed.  If there are six portraits in sequence on a wall, and one of the two in the center hangs slightly low, then it seems sloppy, seems like the person who hung the portraits did a poor job, but if there are seven, and the center one hangs slightly lower—well, then it might have been intentional, and she can claim as much to Satya, and the matter will be dropped _without_ her having to explain that all of the pictures on she and Fareeha’s wall were, in fact originally levelled with a laser level, and hung quite exactly, but she might, _maybe_ , have knocked one down when pushing her wife up against the wall to make out with her, and rehung it slightly low afterwards. 

(Whether or not Satya believes that excuse is another matter, and when Mei asks Angela what _really_ happened, having heard from Satya about Angela’s defensiveness over the placement of the pictures, Angela is all out of excuses.)

Of course, that careful avoidance of all the ways in which symmetry reveals sloppiness cannot entirely explain Angela’s fondness for prime numbers.  After all, she quite likes being part of a set of _two_ , and although two is not a composite, it is undeniably the number for which expectations of symmetry are highest.

With Fareeha, Angela quite likes being part of a set, enjoys knowing that Fareeha is, in so many ways, her equal and opposite.  There is not a symmetry between them, not really, because they lack the fundamental _sameness_ that symmetry implies, but they contrast with one another, and that is, in all honesty, probably better than if they were too similar.  The world needs neither two people who have so much trouble initiating conversation as Angela, nor two people who dress quite so colorfully as Fareeha.

So, symmetry is not _truly_ the problem Angela has with composite numbers.  It can be a problem, certainly, but is far from the chief one.

Perhaps the problem with component numbers is this: one of division.

(One ought, therefore, to be preferable to components as well, for it is indivisible save by itself, even if it is not prime, but Angela has lived by herself for far too long, has been the _one_

When it is just she and Fareeha, they may be expected to mirror each other in certain ways, but they are never expected to _divide_ , never expected to break down into smaller groups and content themselves with that difference, to accept this state of affairs.  Similarly, when she is with Ana and Fareeha, although the depth of her relationship with Ana is not the same as Ana and Fareeha’s, Angela rarely feels left out, for she occupies as large a role in Fareeha’s life as Ana does, even if she does so differently, and there is no pressure for them to be split into groups, to force Fareeha to choose between the two of them, to break them down into component parts, one side the clear loser.

If there are four people, however, matters are far more complicated.  Introduce Sam to the equation, and then the question of how to break the four of them down into groups becomes unsatisfactory for all involved.  For all that the integer value of the people in the groups will be equal, Angela knows that relationships between people are not so simple.  If Fareeha pairs off to speak with Ana, then Angela and Sam are left to a group with nothing to talk about, but if Fareeha pairs off with Angela, then the rather unfair decision to pair off Ana and Sam has been made, and the relationship of a divorced couple and newlyweds are not at all comparable, and no one would say that the groups are equal, and most regrettable of all would be Fareeha talking with Sam and leaving Angela and Ana to _try_ and hold a civil conversation with one another.

There is far less harmony in component groups, is always the threat of _unfairness_ , of perceived slight.  Both Angela and Fareeha were only children, and avoided therefore the comparisons that some children must face, _this_ one is like their first parent, so that one must be like their second, and pay no mind to the fact that both of the children far prefer to spend time with the former parent, because the second child will be forced to spend more time with the latter.

So Angela cannot enjoy, today, the pleasing, prime results of her experiment, because she is wholly preoccupied with the problem of a _second_ child, the complications of such.

Of course, the fact that having a second child would make their immediate family a component number is not at the forefront of Angela’s mind, is not something which even occurs to her, consciously, but for all the reasons why she prefers prime numbers to component ones, she thinks having a single child, too, might be preferable.

It is _simpler_ , having one child, and it is all she knows.  If they have only the one progeny, they need not worry about accidentally giving preferential treatment, need not worry about the dynamic that will develop between said child and any siblings, need not worry about all the myriad ways in which their little family could be divided up, put into groups and pitted against one another.

(It is not, in truth, a family she is picturing when she worries about this, is instead the original Overwatch.  Recall has done much to put her on the right path, to better all of their lives, but nothing can erase what was done to them, to the organization, to their bonds, when she and the other members found themselves obliged to take sides during the final days of the original organization.  All she wanted was to be left alone, to be not forced to choose one part of her found family over the other, but that—that hesitance to declare a side—was a choice in and of itself, and for a long while, she lost them all.  Like most mothers, she imagines she will want better for her child.)

To admit it would be rather difficult for Angela, for she does not know how to broach the subject with the delicacy it requires, but she worries, already, that their family which does not even yet exist will end in tragedy.  She knows, of course, that she will love their child, cannot imagine a scenario in which she stopped loving them, and they do not even exist yet, but love is not, in and of itself, enough.  After all, few would claim to love their child more than Ana loves Fareeha, and Angela, having borne witness to only a fraction of what Ana and Fareeha have done to one another, knows that loving each other only made the things Ana and Fareeha did hurt worse.

So a second child—more variables—it worries her.

Even with only one child to each of their families, neither Angela nor Fareeha arrived at where they are in the present without a good deal of pain, and most of the families Angela knows do little to change her opinion that _more_ siblings would only worsen any potential problems.

(One can hardly be friends with Genji and continue to delude oneself into thinking that having a sibling is something inherently _good_.  Even if Genji has forgiven his brother, Angela cannot help but think, remembering the extent of his injuries, the pain they caused him, cause him still, that Genji would have lived a happier life without having had a brother.  She will never say as much, for it is not her place, but privately she finds herself relived that Hanzo rejected his brother’s proposal that he join the Recall.  He does not _belong_ with them, and she will never think otherwise.)

But a part of her thinks, despite all evidence to the contrary, that both she and Fareeha might have benefitted from a sibling.

A sibling would not have solved Fareeha and Ana’s relationship, might have complicated it further, in fact, but they certainly could not have made the situation _worse_ , and when Fareeha learned that her mother had not died, when she was alone in the world with the knowledge that her mother had abandoned her, had abandoned all that she stood for, that although she lived she was now, somehow, further from the living woman Fareeha once knew than she had been when dead—having a sibling would not have undone any of those things, but at least Fareeha would not have been _alone._ At least she might have had someone with whom she could speak about her experiences.  At least she could have had some other means of processing what happened to her. 

Perhaps a second child would make it harder for Fareeha and Angela to be the best possible parents for each of their children, perhaps they will complicate things for one another, perhaps they will not get along—but at least they will not be _alone._

Here, Angela can understand Fareeha’s appeal.  Although she, unlike Fareeha, believes that in time they could decide on _either_ adopting or conceiving, and although she does not share the idyllic notions of siblinghood that Fareeha mentioned, when she made the proposition, she does know what it is to feel completely isolated, knows what it was to have been alone in the world when she was orphaned, to have had no one and nothing to turn to.

In this, she and Fareeha are in agreement: isolation is a terrible thing.

(And what is more, she worries far more than does Fareeha about the possibility of orphaning their child, about the fact that a single mission gone awry could leave their child to live the sort of life Angela did.  They will need to discuss that, what will be done to prevent such, will need to have a very lengthy conversation, before they even begin the steps necessary to bring their child home, but it does help, somewhat, does allay some of Angela’s worries, to think that their child might have a sibling with them.  Even if something were to lose she and Fareeha, with a sibling they would not be _alone_ in that loss.)

Perhaps there is an appeal in having a second child; although Angela will always prefer the idea of adopting, thinks that it is the better decision, morally, than having a child of their own, she understands that having a child is important to Fareeha, and does not want her own happiness to arrive at the cost of her wife’s.

If there were two children, they could both experience parenthood the way they feel is best, and Angela knows them both well enough to know, too, that although the manner of becoming parents matters to them, it will not change how they feel about their children once they have been brought into their lives.  Any child will be beloved by them, regardless of origin.

Still, there remains the matter of their competence as parents.  Like all prospective parents they do not know, yet, if they will be good mothers, can hope that they will be, and promise to try, but they lack the experience of parenting to say definitively if it is something to which they will be suited, to know if they _enjoy_ parenthood, to know whether or not they will have the energy, after a first child, to consider caring also for a second, or if they will find parenthood exhausting and overwhelming.

Angela wants to believe that motherhood will be easy.  She wants to believe that they will take to it, that they will handle it as well as they handle the myriad of crises they are expected to deal with as officers in Overwatch.  She wants to believe that they will be able to work together to find solutions to any problems that may arise, and that they experience will bring them still closer together.

However, Angela is far from naïve; nothing in her or Fareeha’s life has ever gone according to plan, and there is little enough reason for her to assume parenthood will.  If they agree to have two, if they compromise in such a way, they cannot jump straight into things, cannot bring home both children at once.  They will have to do things slowly, will have to adjust to the first before they begin the process of having a second, for they must know that they still _want_ a second, feel that they are able to care for both adequately.

It makes sense, to do things that way.  It is fairer to their hypothetical children.  It is better for them emotionally.

But—for there is always a catch—Angela knows that, in such a situation, if she and Fareeha decide not to have a second child, it will mean that they do not adopt. 

Fareeha did not suggest as much, would not, but Angela is more practical than Fareeha, when it comes to planning for the future.  Her wife may be tactically minded on the field, but outside of work Fareeha is a romantic, an idealist; it is falls to Angela to consider the potential outcomes of many of their decisions.

(Of course, Angela loves that Fareeha is that way, would not ask her to change or _want_ her to.  It is nice, to have a wife who knows that things will be well, in the end, who does not worry overmuch, who balances out her own tendency to focus on the worst possible outcomes.  Fareeha’s persistent optimism is one of her better features, even if it is sometimes slightly inconvenient.)

If, for whatever reason, it takes them a long time to adopt, or if they have trouble conceiving, it will be important to have had Fareeha at least _try_ to get pregnant first, for they can adopt at any age, and there is a window during which fertility is highest and pregnancy outcomes are lower risk.  Certainly, with advancements in reproductive medicine, that window is growing larger, but still infertility is stressful, is painful, is demoralizing.  They _can_ intervene medically, if they need to, but it will be easiest not to do so, and therefore it is better to try and conceive sooner than later, while Fareeha is still in her mid-30s.

There is also the matter of the first child’s feelings.  Angela cannot know what it is to have a sibling, but she is well aware of the societal preference for children conceived by their parents, knows that no matter what they do, having two children of different origins will complicate their dynamics.  If the adopted child were to come into their family first, only for them to later conceive—even if they handle things well enough that their child does not feel that they are being replaced, even if they know that they are equal to their new sibling, are not loved any less for their existence, even if everything goes perfectly, neither Angela nor Fareeha can change the narratives common in their society.  Neither of them can stop other people from commenting that they must be grateful, finally, to have a pregnancy.  Neither of them can stop their children from seeing media which shows that blood is what _really_ matters.  Neither of them will be able to control, if their adopted child is a different race from either of them, the assumption that they are not a part of the family, even as their sibling is told just how much they resemble Fareeha.

If they adopt second, then their child will _know_ that they were not adopted because conception was difficult, or impossible, will not feel replaced by the birth of a sibling, will know that they were wanted just as they are.  Not all of the problems that come from conceiving one and adopting another will be solved, but they will be ameliorated, and if waiting to adopt could better the life of that child—well, then Angela cannot see any other choice as viable.

So, if they have two children, adoption must come second, and if one is enough, if they know that they will not be able, emotionally, to dedicate themselves to a second child, then—barring Fareeha having been unable to conceive entirely, which Angela certainly hopes will not be the case, for her wife’s sake—it will be Angela who does not get to experience parenthood the way she originally intended.

Is that acceptable to her?  Is that a risk she is willing to take?

Yes.  To make Fareeha happy, yes.  It is not even a difficult decision, once she has time to think about it, has mulled it over during all 200 of her improved nanites’ trials, for she knows that if something should happen, if they should decide they are better suited as a one child family, she will still love her child as much as she would were they adopted. 

Emotionally, it is not objectionable—her love for Fareeha and for the mere idea of their child outweighs her regret that she could not adopt.  But morally, there she struggles.

It does not sit right with her, the thought that if they conceive a child, and something happens to them before they adopt, or if they only have the one, they will have brought more orphans into the world than they have helped.  If they are going to have two children, then she would prefer, always, to adopt two, to give as many children who need them homes as they are able.  This does not address the issue at hand, one of compromise between the desires of she and Fareeha, and she knows that, even if she does not understand _why_ , it is equally important to Fareeha to birth a child as it is for her to adopt.  If she were to propose that, it would be dismissive of Fareeha’s feelings, would not help them to make any progress on the issue whatsoever.

Still, she feels they could do _more,_ and if they do this, it is she who stands to lose the chance at taking the path to parenthood that she prefers.

So, a counter-offer.  A proposal.  If they can have more children than just their first, Angela wants to adopt _two_.

(Two is a prime number, as is three, the total number of children, and five, the size of their potential family. This, too, feels right.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have every prime number up to 10007 memorized bc when i was a kid (like four? maybe slightly younger...) i was super obsessed w them and thought that anything that was divisible wasnt really "whole" and was somehow lacking so i tried to make sure everything was prime. like obvs idc anymore but in the back of my head when someone says a number if its prime im just internally like "oh nice, prime"
> 
> idk where i was going w that anecdote actually. anyway hope ur having a good day. and such. im gonna go write more fic


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h-hewwo
> 
> slightly late bc i was writing stuff for my other acct/had someone in town/didnt upload as soon as i finished. u know. the usual excuses.
> 
> anyway... here it is

Although few people would be so bold as to call Fareeha impulsive, she is certainly _decisive_ , prone to making decisions quickly and not going back on them, once made.  So, it is understandable that she grows a bit antsy as she waits for Angela to make decisions.  Far be it from her to pressure her wife, but Fareeha _would_ very much appreciate if Angela made decisions just a little bit quicker.

However, she knows that the longer her wife considers something, the better the outcome usually is for Fareeha.  If Angela is going to change her mind on anything, it takes her a long time to do so, to weigh every option and to eventually admit that Fareeha is in the right—sometimes for reasons Fareeha never considered, but will gladly take credit for.  Therefore Fareeha is not worried, necessarily, when more than a week passes without Angela responding to her suggestion that they have two children, is aware at least on some level that Angela taking so long to formulate a response is probably a good sign, but she is just a bit antsy.

Patience never has been her strong suit.

(Being with Angela has helped her to become more patient, however, taught her that there are things worth waiting for.)

Rather than live in anticipation, she does her best to distract herself, to put thoughts of what is to come out of her mind; unfortunately, she is relatively unsuccessful.  Fareeha is a _curious_ person, by nature, as well as an impatient one, and wants very badly to know what Angela’s answer is.  After all, without an answer she cannot begin to prepare for the future, to make plans, to take the necessary next steps towards achieving their goal of motherhood.

Unless, of course, she begins to prepare for both possible answers.

That, Fareeha can do.

Is it a waste of energy?  Perhaps, but she has more than enough of that to spare, and if it helps her sleep at night, knowing that she has answers about whether or not old Overwatch’s parental leave policy will be continued into the Recall, then that is not hurting anyone.

So, while she does not _forget_ the matter at hand, exactly, could not, she does manage to distract herself from it, and manage to feel productive by redirecting her energy elsewhere.  In fact, she distracts herself enough that when after a week Angela brings the matter up again, says that she has a counter-proposal, Fareeha does not realize that they are discussing children, thinks that Angela is continuing their earlier conversation about whether it makes more sense for Angela or Fareeha to train with new Valkyrie medics on their first flight.

(Angela argues that she ought to, of course, having designed the system and therefore understanding it better.  That does make sense, but Fareeha herself is of the opinion that, since neither Valkyrie has its own means of flight, independent of a partner, it makes more sense for future medics to train alongside herself or even Hana, as they will have more time in the air.  Besides which, they are more likely to work alongside Fareeha or Hana than they are to be doubled up with Angela.  It is all hypothetical, at this point, is only a proposition about training a future generation, but one they need to be united on before bringing the matter up to the rest of Overwatch’s Command.)

“I thought we agreed not to discuss work after 19:30 on Thursdays,” it is a necessary rule, given that Command meets on Friday mornings, and if they could, both she and Angela would spend all night trying to get the other to come around to their point of view on any and every possible policy proposal.

Angela frowns, sets down her fork, wipes her mouth a bit nervously, “A counter-proposal about _children_.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, not really sure how she ought to feel.  The use of _children_ is heartening, but the word _counter-proposal_ is decidedly not.  While she understands that it is important that they consider everything they can before having a child, that this is going to be in the best interest of any children they may have in the long term, she does not relish the idea of them entering into yet another stalemate, finding another point on which they cannot agree.  It feels a bit too much like inaction, for her taste.

“Yes,” Angela agrees, but says nothing more.

A pause, at which point Fareeha feels it necessary to ask, “And what is your counter-proposal, exactly?” 

“Well,” Angela begins, “If we accept that attempting to have two children, one by each of our preferred methods, necessarily increases the risk that I won’t be able to experience parenthood the way I want, then—”

“Wait,” Fareeha interrupts, because as much as she wants to hear what, exactly, Angela’s offer is, she does not follow her wife’s logic, “Why would we be less likely to adopt?”

(This is one of the harder parts of being in a relationship with Angela—she is _terrible_ at explaining things.  One might think that someone as intelligent and educated as she would know how to do so, but no, she makes leaps in logic that she does not elaborate on, and expects that everyone else will have done the same, will have followed her same logic to reach the conclusion she considers inevitable.  Obviously, this is not always, or even often, the case, and it frustrates the both of them.  Fareeha tries not to take it personally, because Angela does it with everyone—other PhDs included—and, more importantly, because her wife has admitted to her that she wishes she were better about it, that her frustration is not with _Fareeha_ for not understanding, but with herself for being unable to communicate her thoughts clearly and effectively.)

“If we decide we can’t handle a second child, then adoption would be irresponsible,” Angela says this as if it were obvious.

“Right,” Fareeha does agree with that much, “But why couldn’t we adopt first?”

“It isn’t that we _couldn’t_ ,” Angela tries to clarify, “We shouldn’t.”  Unfortunately, although this ostensibly answers the question Fareeha asked, it clears nothing up.

“Why shouldn’t we?” Hopefully, this question is the right one.

“Chances of conception are higher if we start sooner, and lower if we attempt to do so second.  Therefore it stands to reason that, all other things being equal, you’re at a greater risk of not becoming a parent in the way you’d like if we adopt first than I would be if we adopted second.  Obviously, we ought to choose the order that has the lower risk of one of us not getting what they want—meaning that we try to conceive first.  And,” Angela’s expression changes, slightly, when she says this, less frustrated and more sad, “I don’t want our first child feeling replaced, if you get pregnant second.  You know what people will think.”

While Fareeha is not certain, entirely, that she follows Angela’s logic in the first half of her statement, it does not matter, because she certainly does agree with her wife’s second point.  Even though it would not be the case, an adopted child might feel replaced if she got pregnant after they had joined the family, and she does not want to risk that, does not want her child to feel unwanted or lesser.  Although she wants to experience pregnancy, she is certain that she would love an adopted child equally, once they were in her arms.

“Alright,” Fareeha says, “That makes sense.  But what do you want to do about it?”  She cannot see any way to remove entirely the risk that they would feel unable to parent two children, after having experienced what it was to parent one.

“If we feel we can have another, after we have two, I want to adopt a third.”

Whatever Fareeha expected, it was not _that_.  If anything, she thought Angela would prefer a single child to two.  Her wife just seems like the only child sort.

(Or, really, Angela seems like the _childless_ sort.  Earlier in their relationship, it was one of Fareeha’s bigger concerns—that the chaos and disorder a child brings, the mess and the noise, would be unwelcome in Angela’s life.  Fortunately, Fareeha was wrong on that count; if her wife had not wanted children, she is not sure she would have ever agreed to marriage at all.)

“A third?” she repeats.

“Yes,” Angela says, before qualifying, as if fairness were Fareeha’s concern, “Obviously our chance of feeling able to parent a third is significantly lower than being able to parent a second, but I think the chance of it is equal, to me, to the risk of not being able to adopt at all.”

“Is it?” Fareeha still is not sure she understands.

“This way,” Angela explains, one hand fiddling with her napkin in a way that indicates she is far more nervous than her words let on, “Even if we don’t adopt two, I know that if I _could have_ , I would have given homes to more children than we brought into the world.  Obviously I won’t if we—if one is enough or too many for us already, because that wouldn’t be fair to either our existing child or the children we might adopt, but—I’d just feel better.  Knowing I tried.”

That, Fareeha can understand, but she does have one pressing concern, “And if, after a third, you still felt like we could handle more children?”

“I doubt I would,” Angela tells her, “I’ve known the Lindholms long enough to know how many children is too many.  But if you really wanted a fourth—”

“I won’t!” 

(Perhaps Fareeha says that too quickly, but while three does not seem so unreasonable, four is somehow overwhelming, in her mind.  With four, they could not all hold hands while crossing the street if one of them also had a picnic basket, or a bag of beach towels, or any number of other things.  Four just seems… chaotic.)

“If you did, we could discuss then what would be in the best interests of our family.  But I won’t ever pressure you, even if—even if you’re done after the first.  Or halfway through trying for the first,” Angela has leaned over the table to hold one of Fareeha’s hands in hers, almost knocking over her glass of water in the process.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Fareeha is certain of this; she has wanted to be a mother since long before Angela came into her life.

“If you’re certain,” Angela says, “But I would rather be happy with only you, than have children and know that you were miserable.”

“I won’t be,” Fareeha says, “If I really think I can’t handle more than the one, I’ll let you know, but honestly?  Right now, three sounds nice.”

“It does?” Angela sounds surprised, as if it were not she advocating for three in the first place.

“It does,” Fareeha confirms, then glances away from Angela’s face for a moment, eyes on their couch in the background, “I was actually kinda worried that you’d say you only wanted one.”

“I did,” Angela says, “At first.  And I still don’t much like the idea of having two.  But I thought about why I preferred one to two and… three has its own benefits, as well as most of the benefits to one.”

“What’s wrong with two?” Clearly, Fareeha missed something.

A frown from Angela, “Nothing, really.  But when you have two, people think about having _one of each_ , a girl to be like her mother, and a boy who takes after his—” she stops there, for a second, “—his other mother.  I don’t want our children to be raised with those expectations.”

“We wouldn’t have to raise them that way.”  In fact, Fareeha would rather they did not.  Her parents never held her to any particular gender standards—her father especially—and she thinks her childhood was much happier for it.  Besides which, it is entirely possible that one or both of their children will not be a boy or a girl.

“I know,” Angela says, “But if we have two, other people might still think that, and if one is adopted, and the other isn’t—they still might feel like one of them is _yours_ and the other is _mine,_ and feel pressure to be more like one of us as a result.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

(She supposes that, given the emphasis on family legacy with which she was raised, she really ought to have.  Any child which is biologically hers will have to endure more of that pressure, whether she consciously exerts it or not.  If they have more than one child either via pregnancy or adoption, however, then it is less a dichotomy, less visibly one child _Fareeha’s_ and the other _Angela’s,_ and, hopefully, none of them feel pressured to follow in the Amari family footsteps at all, but at least if they do the pressure might be distributed slightly more evenly, with it being more clear that all of their children are equal, rather than one belonging to one parent in particular.  The last thing she wants is to force a child down her own path and—and she sounds like her mother, worrying about one of her children becoming a soldier.  If they do, they do.)

A beat.  Evidently, Angela has nothing more to add on the subject.

“Well,” Fareeha says, “My dad will be glad to hear we’re having three.  Apparently he likes the idea of a big family.”

“ _Sam?_ ”  Evidently this surprises Angela as much as it did Fareeha.

“Mum says he wanted five or six, so he could have his own sports team,” her mother had also said he was joking, but Fareeha—having met an old friend of her father’s with five sons, all of whom played basketball—is not so sure.

Angela’s nose wrinkles, “I can’t picture your father with so many children.”

“But you can picture Mum with that many?”

“You never had her as a commanding officer,” Angela replies, “I think she could at least keep six children in line.”

“She couldn’t even make _me_ behave, Angela.”

(Fareeha was far from a poorly behaved child, but when it mattered, it was her father to whom she listened, not her mother.  Although she respected Ana—respects her still—her mother never explained to her _why_ she ought to do as she was told, and Sam did, which made listening to his instructions far more palatable to her.  As a child, it was enough to do as she was told, but in her teen years she could not abide by _do as I say, not as I do_ , and even if she now understands why Ana felt she could not talk about what, specifically, would be so terrible about following in her footsteps, Fareeha thinks that a bit more clear communication might have made things easier for everyone.)

“It’s hard to imagine you as a troublemaker,” Angela tells her.

“Is it?” Fareeha does not think so.

A pause as Angela considers, “If we’re discussing your professional life and motivations, it’s definitely hard to picture.  I suppose, thinking about you outside of work—and outside of being with me, given that I myself discourage risk taking behaviors—you’re adventurous.  But I don’t think you break that many rules.  Or _any_ rules.”

That stings, a bit, because Fareeha would still like to think of herself as being just a little rebellious—but Angela is right, despite the fact that she enjoys trying new things and taking risks off the field, Fareeha has long since desisted from breaking any actual laws, and in fact far prefers to take only _measured_ risks, these days.  “You might have a point,” she admits, and then, to distract from that train of thought, and the accompanying realization that her teenage self would find her _lame_ , despite all of her achievements and the fact that she can literally fly, she asks, “But what about you?”

“We both know I don’t break rules,” Angela answers without so much as a second thought—and she is right, they _do_ , but that is not what Fareeha is asking.

“No,” says she, “What kind of kid were you—before?”

(She knows, of course, the sort of woman Angela became after being orphaned, and she does not particularly want to discuss that period of Angela’s life.  Undoubtedly, those memories are unpleasant ones.  But she is curious—how much caution is a product of Angela’s nature, and how much of it is in response to what she witnessed, what she survived?)

“Disappointing,” Angela says, without even pausing to think about it. 

The answer shocks Fareeha—from what her wife has said of her relationship with her parents, it was a good one.  “How so?” she asks.

“My parents never said anything,” Angela explains, “At least not that I can remember.  But I could tell that I wasn’t what they expected, and I felt—feel, sometimes—guilty about it.”

“Sorry,” Fareeha says, “I shouldn’t have asked.”  An awkward pause in which Angela neither agrees nor disagrees with her assessment, and Fareeha feels compelled to add, “Obviously, if one of our children is trans, we’ll do better than that.”

“Ah,” Angela says, “No.  That wasn’t the problem.  I didn’t even know that I was—well, they handled what of that came up decently.  It was more that…”  Angela pauses to find words, and Fareeha waits as patiently as she is able, “My parents were married for fifteen years before I was born, and I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure, from what I heard from family friends later in life, that they were trying to have children the whole time.  That’s—it’s a long time to dream of what your child will be like, and to develop expectations of parenthood.  So I’m sure they were relieved to finally have me, and I know they loved me, but—” she grimaces, then, “I wasn’t exactly a _normal_ child, Fareeha.  They didn’t get to do typical parenting things with me, because I was academically ahead so quickly that—well, things weren’t like they pictured.  And they never complained, that I can remember, but they can’t have enjoyed that.”

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha says, not sure what else to say to that.

“Don’t be,” Angela replies, “They loved me.  That’s what matters.”

“Well,” says Fareeha, “Okay.  I still probably shouldn’t have asked.”

A non-committal gesture from Angela, “Expectations are probably something we should consider, before our first is born.  Although maybe it can wait until after we’ve washed our dishes.”

The way she says it, so casually, _our first is born_ , makes Fareeha’s heart skip a beat as the reality truly sets in.  They are doing this.  They are _going to_ be parents.  A month and a half of back and forth after they initially decided and now—now they finally know for certain that they are going to have a child.  Three of them, in fact.

The entire time they wash the dishes, Fareeha cannot stop smiling.

Things are finally looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip to angelas parents literally and in the sense that they didnt get to teach their kid to read/send her off to her first day of kindergarten/help her w homework or whatever... but also its not as deep as angela thinks... there is no such thing as a 'normal' childhood... more on legacies and expectations next chapter, tho that really foreshadows some stuff for if i write future kidfic (i mean i doubt i will but also id be lying if i said i hadnt had names picked out since 2016)
> 
> also rip to fareeha AND angela every time angela tries to explain anything... fareeha will definitely be the mom who helps w homework


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo... editing this chapter killed me bc i wrote so much that was like interesting To Me bc i love logistics but actually said very little in terms of char development and therefore didnt belong here... rip... but i am here to post now

If Fareeha had her way, Angela thinks that they would have been looking for potential donors within an hour of deciding that they were, in fact, going to conceive a child.  Fortunately for the both of them, they were called away to an emergency in Barranquilla, and the flights to and from their destination, as well as the subsequent several days Fareeha spent engaged in the bureaucratic nightmare of justifying their intervention ex post facto, have given Angela more than enough time to organize her thoughts, and prepare a list of questions which she believes will best be answered prior to conception.

Now that Fareeha is—finally—returned from Colombia, she has a day to rest, and Angela, having taken the afternoon off as well, has joined her for a late lunch in a small park near the Watchpoint.  It is rare for either of them to take time off, other than mandatory post-mission downtime, but the stress of having had to play politics has convinced Fareeha it is for the best, and Angela has missed her.  As summer is rapidly drawing to a close, it is as good a time for a picnic as any.

Here, they are alone enough to discuss private matters without interruption, and Angela hopes that the pleasant atmosphere will make the more difficult questions palatable.  If it does not then, at least, they never need come here again.

Already, Fareeha knows she has questions, but she does not think that the anticipation sours the enjoyment of their lunch, particularly as she explained beforehand that they were purely precautionary, logistical things.

As soon as they are done eating, however, her wife—ever impatient—seems to have had enough of waiting, and gazes rather pointedly at the paper still sitting in their picnic basket.

“Well?” she prompts.

“Don’t you want time to digest, first?”  It is not that Angela is anxious, exactly, but she knows that some of her questions may have unpleasant answers, and she would really rather draw out this moment, the cool breeze on her skin a pleasant contrast to the warmth of the day.

Clearly, Fareeha does not share her feelings, because she says, “Not particularly, no.”

Perhaps she underestimated her wife’s curiosity, slightly.

“Alright,” says she, removing the paper and noting, with some regret, that she forgot to pack the stale bread end she meant to feed to the birds.  “In that case, I guess I should just start at the top of the list?”

“You would know,” Fareeha points out, “I didn’t write it.”

Well, Angela cannot argue with that reasoning.  “Right,” she agrees, before beginning her explanation, “I grouped the questions by subject, as well as I could.  Some topics are obviously going to be more… difficult than others.  Do you want to do a mix or go in order?”

What order they go in does not matter to her, particularly, as she considered her answers when writing all the questions.

“Easiest to hardest?” Fareeha suggests.

“I don’t exactly have—I sorted them by how emotionally charged I thought our decision making process would be?  Which doesn’t mean that they’ll really be any _harder_ to find an answer to but—”

“Okay,” Fareeha cuts her off, “Least emotional first, then.”

“That’s financial and legal questions.”

“You think that’s the _least_ emotional?” Fareeha sounds surprised.

Frowning, Angela replies, “Yes?”  Honestly, she has never understood being embarrassed about one’s earnings, or prideful of them, either.  As long as she has enough money not to ever worry about starving again, she does not care. 

“Alright,” Fareeha does not sound entirely convinced, but she acquiesces. 

“Okay,” she is still frowning as she says this, slightly, “I think—well, this is actually the hardest question in this section, but if we answer it, then most of the rest will be easier.  Do you think we should merge our finances?”

(Before marrying, they discussed it, briefly, but concluded that the stress of planning a wedding and reinstating Overwatch’s legal status was enough to worry about, at the time.  Afterwards, they—or at least Angela—forgot about the matter.)

“Unless you’re hiding a massive amount of debt—”

“I’m not!”  Angela is, in fact, very much not so.

“—Then I don’t have any real objection.  But rewriting my will for the second time in under a year is gonna be a pain.”

“The second time?”  Why would Fareeha have—

“You didn’t rewrite yours when we got married?” Now Fareeha sounds confused.

“Oh,” Angela says, and then, “No.  I didn’t really think about it.”

(Fareeha seems financially secure enough to survive Angela’s death, and has enough skills and education, as well as the appropriate legal standing, to survive a discharge in the aftermath, even should the worst happen.  Jesse, on the other hand, can say none of those things, and so he has been the sole beneficiary of Angela’s will for almost two decades now—unbeknownst to him.  Adding Fareeha to her will simply never occurred to Angela, because she does not _need_ to be taken care of; it is a vote of confidence, and not a slight.)

“I definitely need to do that,” Angela says, after a brief pause to consider—she needs to make provisions for a child, and, evidently, discuss with her lawyers what the typical inheritance for a spouse is.  Later, she will bring up the matter of her funds for Jesse’s potential legal fees.  “But so long as we’re in agreement about merging finances, the rest of the questions in this section should be easy.”

And they are, for the most part.  Both of them will pay for obstetrics costs, and a new vehicle for Fareeha—as a motorcycle is not appropriate for travel with an infant—and education, and clothing, and furniture, and toys, and all other associated costs.  Although they both will need to approve of major expenses, they agree to try not to consider which of them makes more money when making these decisions.  Pride is not as great a concern as properly caring for their child.

(Naturally, this is only a preliminary agreement, and they have a number of specifics, still, to iron out, have each earmarked a number of questions to be revisited when they have further information, but it is enough for Angela’s peace of mind to know that they are _somewhat_ on the same page.  Many of these concerns will not be relevant for years, yet.)

Some questions, however, are not so simple; the matter of citizenship, they both agree, will have to wait while Fareeha learns more about how their child’s potential tribal enrollment might be impacted, and then there is the matter of “Last name?”

(Neither of them changed their names upon marriage; it would not have been traditional for Fareeha to do so, nor practical for Angela, given that she is already known and published as Dr. Zeigler.)

Hesitation, from Fareeha, and then, “Is it bad to say that I want them to have mine?  I know that the legacy is… complicated, at best, and I wouldn’t be opposed to hyphenating, if you wanted your name as well, but—being an Amari means a lot to me, you know?”

As a matter of fact, Angela does _not_ know, but that actually makes this easier—her big worry was that Fareeha, burdened as she has often felt by her family legacy, would not want to pass on her last name.  “Hyphenating won’t be an option, if our child has Swiss citizenship.  It’s illegal,” says she, and, before Fareeha has time to be concerned, “But it’s not a problem, really.  I’d rather our children had your last name.”

“You would?”  Given Angela’s lack of living blood relations, Fareeha’s confusion is, perhaps, understandable.

“Yes,” says she, “I’ve long since contented myself with being the last Ziegler, and anyway, I think I’ve done more than enough to secure my family’s place in history.  If they’re an Amari instead, they get the family that comes with the name.”

“They’ll have my family no matter what,” Fareeha says, “Or most of it, at least.  They’ll definitely have Mum and Dad.”  A beat, during which Fareeha adjusts her seated position to lean more heavily on Angela’s shoulder, “Point being that you don’t have to and—thank you.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to do that,” Angela tells her, “I have questions about religion.”

Although Angela is the only one of the two of them with particularly strong religious convictions, she is not naïve—Fareeha’s ties to religion are a part of her cultural identity, and therefore still important to her, even if she does not observe strictly.  It would be foolish to assume that her wife would not want to raise their child in her own faith, too.

This, at least, has a simple solution: they will involve their child in all of their individual religious observances, and the child will be allowed to choose for themself, eventually, which tradition to follow, if either.  They agree, also, to reconsider whether or not certain holidays ought to include the entire family in the observance in some capacity when the time comes, if their child ever expresses a desire to observe things as a family.  Even the discussion of circumcision goes well—bris and khitan are not the same, precisely, but there are few enough regulations on the performing of the latter that Fareeha does not mind a bris, even if she does question the need to discuss this when it might never be relevant. 

For a moment, things go so well that Angela nearly forgets that she anticipated the conversation would be difficult, until she asks if Fareeha will want a baby shower.

“Of course!” says Fareeha and then, “I take it we’re finished with the religious questions?”

If only.  “Ah,” says Angela, nervously brushing an invisible crumb from her skirt, “No.  It’s ähm—it’s traditional not to talk too much about the baby before they’re born.  Or even the pregnancy.”

“That seems… inconvenient,” It is clear from her tone that Fareeha is choosing her words very carefully, “What would we do if something came up?”

“Oh, no, not between each other!” Angela clarifies, “We can talk between each other all we want, and tell family after the 40th day—and usually everyone else learns at five months.  It’s just that talking too much about it, or throwing a baby shower, or otherwise being too prematurely happy—it’s bad luck.”

“Angela,” Fareeha’s hand is on her knee, now, “I don’t think that’s going to be possible.  People are going to have questions _very quickly_ when I stop going on missions—and five months?  I’d already be showing.”

“I know,” she sounds a bit petulant, even to her own ears, changes tone before continuing, “I’m not saying we should do that.  Just—I don’t want to talk about it _too_ much, just in case.  And I think a baby shower is really—yes, it’s superstition, and it’s ridiculous, and I _know_ that, but it would help my peace of mind if we didn’t have one.”

“We don’t have any reason to think that anything will go wrong—”

“That’s what everyone thinks, Fareeha,” Angela has very little experience in obstetrics, but this much she knows.

“ _But_ —” Fareeha’s tone makes it clear that she was not done speaking, “But if you’re still feeling that way when I’m at seven or eight months, we don’t have to have one.  I think it would be fun, but fun isn’t more important than your anxiety.”

“Thank you,” says she, and means it.

(She wishes, of course, that she did not worry so much, wishes that she could tell Fareeha to do what she likes, and not spoil her happiness by so doing.  But despite thinking that superstitions are ridiculous things—this is one Angela cannot let go of.  Just knowing all the things which might go wrong make her nervous enough already, and she doubts she will sleep easily until the baby is born no matter what they do, but it is best not to tempt fate.)

“Now are we done with the religious questions?”  Fareeha’s tone is joking, but Angela can tell, still, that she is not, is eager to move on to something else.

“Yes, but I doubt you’ll like the medical questions much better.  Have you looked into obstetricians in the area?”

“Should I?  The best doctor in the world is right here,” for emphasis, she pats Angela’s knee.

“I know that being forced to play general practitioner for everyone on base might make it hard to remember,” Angela sniffs, “But I’m a _trauma surgeon_.  We really don’t want to be in a situation where my particular field of expertise is relevant.”  She lets her voice soften, then, and adds, “And in any case, I’d much rather be there for you as a spouse than worrying about the medical side of things.”

“Okay,” and it sounds as if Fareeha means it, “I’ll look for an OB.  _But_ you’re going to worry no matter what we do, and we both know it.”

“Yes,” Angela does not disagree, certainly, could not deny it even if she tried.  After all, it is why they are here, now.

Most of the other questions are easy enough—Angela knows Fareeha’s medical history already, and knows most of Ana’s as well.  Would Fareeha want a midwife?  _No._   Does she want Angela to perform the insemination, or an OB?  _It’d be more intimate to do ourselves._   Is her father’s deafness congenital?  _Congenital?  Oh, yes_.  Is it autosomal recessive or dominant?  _I can ask._ Is Fareeha willing to do antenatal genetic testing, to detect other conditions in utero?  _I don’t see why not._

Then, a difficult question, again, “If there’s a fatal fetal abnormality, would you want to terminate?”

“ _What?_ ”  Fareeha sits up, then, to look at her.

“If the baby is incompatible with life, would—”

“No, I know what it means I just—why do we have to talk about this?  We don’t even know if it will matter.”  Fareeha’s expression is pained, at best.

“If it’s hard to contemplate now,” Angela reasons, “It will only feel that much worse in the moment.  The last thing we need is to have to worry about what to do while coming to terms with the situation.”

(If they take as long in deciding what to do about that as they have with so many of their other major decisions, they may miss the window of opportunity to act.)

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Fareeha admits.  “I’ve never thought about… What would you do?”

“It isn’t my choice,” this is not an attempt to dodge the question, because Angela _does_ know what she thinks of the matter, but she genuinely believes that this is not her decision to make.  “I’m not the one who would have to potentially—who would be in that situation.  I can’t decide for you what’s best.”

“I know,” Fareeha says, “But I’m not sure, so I’m asking you as my wife.”

“I’d terminate,” Angela can see how surprised Fareeha is by that statement, how swift and how certain it comes. 

(In general, Angela’s feelings on abortion are more conflicted—although she has never let that interfere with doing her due diligence as a healthcare provider—but after having saved Genji, after having seen his rage, his pain, his suffering?  How could she ever be party to bringing into the world a baby who would know nothing but suffering, would live only for a few months at most?  She could not.)

“Oh,” the tone in which Fareeha says it makes it clear that she did not expect that answer.  “I think—I need more time to think about this.  I’d never considered…”

“That’s fine,” Angela tells her, “We have time.”  This, she will not press Fareeha to answer, not when she is so obviously disturbed by the question.  “Only a few more questions now.”

“Only a few?” Fareeha’s tone is skeptical, and she squints down at the paper in an attempt to determine how close they are to finished.  She is out of luck, however, as the list is not in English.

“Only a few we need to answer before conception,” she corrects.  There will be time enough to argue about which language their child should learn first later—it is not immediately relevant to pregnancy and birth, nor a potential deal-breaker, as the religious questions were.  “Mostly about the donor.  And then a few about custody but—that will depend on who we choose to be the father, I imagine.”

“Father?” Fareeha is quick to point out Angela’s slip.  In all prior discussions the other contributor of their child’s genetic material has simply been a _donor_.

“We can get to that after we finish with the other questions,” Angela starts, “Do you have a preference for the height of—”

“Or,” Fareeha interrupts, “We can start with that, since it seems like you already have someone in mind.”

“I don’t,” says Angela, and it is not a lie—what she has in her mind is not a person, but a general idea of what their family could be.

(What she pictures is this: their child knowing their other parent, the two of them having someone to turn to if they ever need a hand, someone else in their baby’s life so that if the worst happens, they will still have someone to care for them.  The safety, the security having one more person would provide.  No matter what they do, their child will have many people to fall back on, but that is not the same.  She would feel so much better with just one more person looking out for their child.)

“You’re sure?” Fareeha asks.

“Yes, I just think that…”  What does she think?  “There are risks, with sperm donation.  You can never know how honest someone is.  If it were someone we knew—that’s better.  But then I thought that—well, if it was someone we know, would we want them involved?  Would they want to be?  And it’s up to you of course, but if you’d be willing, and if we find someone we can agree on, I’d like for them to be involved as they want.  We’d still be the only custodial parents but—if anything happened to us…”

“…Then the baby wouldn’t be an orphan?”

“Correct,” It is not as simple as that, she thinks, but—yes, Fareeha may be right in assuming that is her primary concern.

“It’s a big decision,” Fareeha says, and Angela does not disagree.  “Maybe the rest of your questions can wait until then?”

“If you’d prefer,” few enough of the rest are necessary to consider prior to conception, and as they are still not, it seems, in any particular hurry, Angela is not worried that they will not have time to talk later.

If she is being honest, they got further, today, than she thought they would, made more progress in one afternoon than the previous three months combined.  For the first time, things start to feel _real_ for Angela.

She is elated, she is impatient, she is _terrified._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since last time i used it someone asked, ähm = "err" or "you know?" in german. kinda a cross between both sometimes. or also like clearing ur throat. idk not an exact translation but bc it and um are both sounds and not proper _words_ ive kept it untranslated as... angela is speaking english but its generally accepted that u use the nonverbal filler words of ur native tongue more often even when ur speaking a diff language. why? idk. probs cause u arent really thinking when u say them  & bc theyre not really taught in language classes. fareeha doesnt do this as much when i write her bc she grew up bilingual (unlike angela) and also bc yanni & u know both sound very alike, and u can use them in pretty much the same way
> 
> anyway... that random linguistic note aside... hope ur day is good, lmk ur thoughts, u wouldnt believe the shit i cut out of this chapter (like 1k-2k words abt international patent law, inter alia)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh hey i changed my username mid-fic... whoops
> 
> agenthill --> euhemeria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo everyone... i was at pax last weekend so obvs no update then... had a great time w emilia (without whom this fic would not exist) and vice (who got me into pharmercy in the first place)... 
> 
> but now im back from pax and back on my bullshit

In the field, it is important to be able to make decisions quickly, to make them surely, to be unwavering.  For this reason, Ana was chosen to serve with the original Overwatch, and she passed this trait on to her daughter, told Fareeha it was of the utmost importance to choose swiftly, and well; often, this trait carries on into Fareeha’s personal life.

No one would call her hasty, but she is decisive, certainly, and knows her heart quickly.

Or, normally that is the case.

On the subject of her child wanting—needing?—a father, she lingers far longer.  A donor, she could abide by, even were he someone they knew—in fact, she prefers that the other genetic parent of her child be someone familiar to her, even if, ultimately, she would have liked best for it to have been Angela—but involving a third person seems to complicate things needlessly.

If they treat this third person as a third parent, would they give them an equal say in raising their child?  If not, how would they negotiate how much of a say this person would have?  Obviously, they would try to find someone whose views were compatible with their own, but surely there would be some things which require renegotiation, and with how difficult it was for them to agree, already, Fareeha is leery of reentering into such discussions.  She is _happy_ with what they have settled on, is more than just content; with a third person’s demands, their wants, their needs in consideration, what would she have to give?

More troubling than the question of what weight this potential third parent’s opinions would have, is what role they would have legally.  Already, sperm donation is a somewhat legally precarious procedure—hypothetically, a donor could attempt to leverage their genetic relation to a child in an effort to gain custody, be it complete or partial, and if something were to happen to Fareeha, that could put Angela in a very difficult position—but if the third person thinks of themself as a parent already, and is known to their child as such, the matter becomes more difficult still.  It will be hard to find a potential donor who would, should the worst happen, be willing to raise Fareeha and Angela’s child after their deaths, but still not be so involved in their life that they might potentially want custody before such an event occurred, or want to be so involved in a non-custodial manner that their interest in the child’s upbringing would interrupt Fareeha and Angela’s ability to parent jointly.

Of course, it is not impossible that, in the course of their relationship, a third custodial parent might be introduced by some other means—this was something they covered in their discussion of what might happen should they divorce, the potential that one of them might remarry.  But a step-parent is not the same thing, certainly, as whatever role this third parent might have.

(And, in any case, Fareeha highly doubts that their child will ever have a step-parent.  Although it hurt Fareeha to hear her wife describe the circumstances under which she thought a divorce would most likely come to pass, and pained Fareeha even more to find that she _agreed_ with such an assessment, she is comforted somewhat by the fact that it is something that will not be occurring in the near future, and neither of them seemed to truly consider what it would be to be married to someone else, afterwards.  Even under such conditions, they would still love each other, and Fareeha cannot imagine herself wanting to remarry.)

Perhaps she is overthinking such things, is worrying about hypotheticals to avoid addressing her real concerns; their child is unlikely to have a step-parent, or a third parent at all, because they are _not_ considering divorce in the near future, and Fareeha is going to veto the idea of their child having a _father._

Why would their child need a father, anyway?  Are they not enough?  What could a father provide that they could not?  Yes, it is important to have custody decided should a mission go wrong, and their child require a legal guardian, but that is not the same as a _father._

If they have a guardian chosen, that guardian could be involved in all of their children’s lives—fatherhood for the one, to whom they served as a donor, would do exactly what Angela fears, and legitimize the importance of biology in parenthood.  If their donor wishes to be the guardian of all three of their children, that would be acceptable, would not further complicate things for the two of them, but if they were father to one, but did not want to take on the role for children to whom they were not related?  That would be cruel, and painful for all involved.

No, fatherhood is not necessary.  It is true that the matter of parents, their importance, seems to be one which troubles Angela—it bothers her still that she was never formally adopted by the Lindholms—but Fareeha knows well that it is not always parents who love one best. 

Perhaps it is a cultural matter.  Fareeha is far from an expert on Swiss culture, but she knows that for many white people, nuclear family is what is most important.  Such a belief is a far cry from Fareeha’s own childhood; whether she was with her father—whose many siblings and half-siblings were more than willing to care for her—or at home with her mother, where it seemed everyone in their neighborhood was somehow related to her, considered themselves aunts or uncles because they were second, third, fourth cousins twice-removed, she _always_ had family, always had older people to look up to, to care for her, to help in raising her. 

With such a support system—and they will have one in Overwatch, Fareeha is sure, whether they _want_ it or not—what need will they have for a father to their child?  Why could they not simply have their donor serve as an uncle? 

It is a better solution than a third parent, is simpler.  Now if only she can convince Angela of as much.

As it turns out, she need not have worried.

When they do finally broach the subject, they are eating together in Angela’s office, Reinhardt resting a room over.  Normally, they would eat elsewhere, but Angela does not trust Reinhardt not to attempt to cut his recuperation short by sneaking out of the Med Bay while she takes lunch.  Neither of them is saying much, as seeing as they are both quite occupied by food, but Angela abruptly slides her chair over to the door of her office and closes it, evidently not wanting to be interrupted during whatever conversation she is about to start.

“If you’re trying to figure out how to say no,” says she, quietly enough that no one will be able to overhear her, “You don’t have to worry about it.  I’d understand.”

“What?”  Fareeha asks, around a mouthful of bread.

“It was just an idea,” Angela says, inspecting the pear in her hands very thoroughly so as to avoid meeting Fareeha’s eyes, “Involving someone else.  If you don’t want to it’s not—it _is_ important to me, but not so important that I wouldn’t accept a no.”

 “I’m not saying _no_ , exactly,” says Fareeha, setting her food to the side on Angela’s desk, “Because I agree that a third guardian could be beneficial.  But I don’t think our child needs a _father._ I know the terminology might be important to you, but—”

“No,” Angela interrupts, looking up then, “No, that’s fine.  I didn’t mean they had to be a _father._ ”

“You didn’t?”  It made sense, in her mind, that Angela would mean that, because were semantics and labelling not at the heart of whatever it is that bothers Angela about her relationship with the Lindholm family?  Clearly, Fareeha has somehow mischaracterized that conflict—how, she cannot be certain, but it is a question for another time.  Right now her concern is that, “You said father, though.”

“Yes,” Angela agrees, punctuating the statement with a bite of the pear, and frowning slightly either at her words or the way the juice rolls unceremoniously down her chin, “I did, but I didn’t _mean_ to say anything—the word father, specifically, wasn’t ever my point.  It’s just the part you noticed.”

“Sorry,” Fareeha says, passing Angela a napkin.  She feels a bit badly now, for having assumed, and foolish for having worried, and guilty about having pressed Angela, if she really was not intending to talk about the matter then.

“Don’t be,” Angela assures her, “I didn’t clarify, and we _did_ need to discuss it—do need to.”

“Right,” Fareeha says, and, “Have you thought more about who you would like, then?”

“Yes,” Angela says, but does not elaborate, returning to the pear somewhat more cautiously now that she is aware of how juicy it is.

“Are you going to tell me?”  Theoretically, Fareeha could stall in the same way Angela is, could suddenly grow _very_ interested in what remains of her salad, but she finds she does not have much of an appetite, now, is far more interested in the matter at hand.

“I have a few choices,” Angela says, setting the pear to the side for a moment as she takes a sip of water.  “B—”

“A few?” Fareeha accidentally interrupts, having assumed that Angela was done when she resumed eating.  “I think we only need the one.”

“Obviously,” the way that she snaps the lid back on her bottle indicates that she did not appreciate Fareeha’s attempt at humor.  “But I think you’ll say no to my first choice.”

“Will I?”

“Mm-hmm,” says Angela, around another bite of the pear.  “Which is why you should go first.  I don’t want you to feel pressured to say yes.”

“Okay,” Fareeha agrees, not at all feeling reassured by that statement.  While she can appreciate that Angela does not want to unduly influence her choice, she is somewhat concerned by whom her wife might be considering, and does not like having to be the one to go first besides.  “I guess I should start with the people I absolutely wouldn’t consider?”

(She rather suspects that, like in so many other cases, they will ultimately compromise with someone they both find not-terrible, rather than having a similar first choice.  Best, then, to start with ruling people out that neither of them will consider in any circumstances.)

“If you like,” Angela says, and sets down the core of her pear, settling back in her chair in a way that indicates that she is content simply to listen.

“Torbjörn and Reinhardt are obvious no’s.  They’re not young enough to necessarily keep up with a child, in ten years, and they’ve both been as involved in parenthood as they want to be already.” Angela nods, “And even if age didn’t disqualify Jack, I don’t think Mum would appreciate me making her relationship with her best friend weird, even if he _has_ always wanted a family.”

“It would be uncomfortable,” Angela agrees.  “But I’m not so certain Jack could have been a donor even if he wanted to be—the long-term effects of the SEP aren’t well documented.”

An understatement; to Fareeha’s knowledge they are not documented at all.

“Yeah,” Fareeha agrees, “There’s that, too.”

A pause, while Fareeha takes a sip of her own water, and then she says, “And your no’s?”

“Ähm,” Angela clearly did not think she would have to speak next, and takes a moment to consider.  “Baptiste, I suppose.  We get along better than we used to, of course, but—well, he _is_ still very much wanted by Talon.  No child of his will ever be safe.”

That is a rather blunt way of putting things, but Fareeha does not disagree, certainly.  She had not really considered Baptiste, given that he and Angela do not get along terribly well, even if they _do_ seem to respect one another—privately.

“Fair enough,” says she, “So as for who I’d rather not have as the father, but won’t rule out categorically: Lúcio—”

“Really?” Angela seems genuinely surprised, and Fareeha supposes that makes sense, as she did just rule out her own best friend.

“Yeah,” Fareeha shrugs, “He really loves kids, of course, but—I think he’d want a bigger role in raising the child than we’d want to give him, you know?  Like he’d want to be their _father,_ a real third parent, not their uncle or guardian or whatever we’re going to call the donor.  So he’s a no for his own sake, as well as ours.”

“You know him better than I do,” Angela acquiesces.

“So, no Lúcio,” Fareeha says, “And as much as I like Genji, I’m not too keen on asking him, either.  I don’t want our baby summoning spirit dragons, or whatever.”

“I don’t think that’s actually genetic,” her wife says, “I couldn’t find anything unusual in his DNA when he was my patient.  He may have been told it was, or chosen to say that, but most likely the dragon is tied to his weapon, somehow.”

“Are you sure?” Fareeha asks.

“Well—”

“Sure enough to bet our child’s future on it?”

“I suppose not,” Angela huffs, crossing her arms as she says it, “But if that’s the case, then I don’t have any suggestions as to who our donor might be.”

“Your ideas for the guardian of our child were _Lúcio and Genji?_ ”

“I don’t see why that’s so surprising,” this, her wife says a bit defensively, “They’re men we’re both friends with, and good with children, too.”

“Yes,” Fareeha says, “But aren’t you forgetting someone?”

‘I don’t see who I could be—”

“Jesse…?”  Surely Angela did not forget her own best friend.

“ _Jesse?_ ”  Now Angela is the one who is surprised.

“Why not?” Fareeha asks.  He is, admittedly her top choice—him or maybe Saleh, if he could ever be convinced to join Overwatch—but Angela does know him best.  It is possible that she knows something Fareeha does not which would rule him out.

“I don’t know,” says Angela, “I didn’t really consider—after some of his more _interesting_ medical emergencies, I try not to think about Jesse’s sex life.”

“It isn’t like we’d be sleeping with him,” when Fareeha said she wanted conception to be as natural as possible, she did not mean _that_ natural.

“Good,” says Angela, “Because I don’t ever want to touch his dick again.”

“ _Again_?”  Although she knows her wife and Jesse went on one date when they were nineteen, she always assumed that they did not make it any further than a kiss on the cheek goodnight, at most.

A shrug from Angela, “Doctor-patient confidentiality.  He might tell you if you asked, though.  It’s a funny story.”

That makes more sense than what Fareeha had been thinking, admittedly, but she really would rather not dwell on what in Jesse’s private life led to him needing a doctor to look at his genitals.  “But other than, uh, _that_ , you don’t have any objections to him as a donor?”  Fareeha is desperately trying to steer this conversation back on track.

“No,” says Angela, “I suppose not.  I might want him to get some additional family health history from his sister, before we commit to this, but that’s my only concern.  He knows better than to drink or smoke around children, and this might actually help give him a reason to quit.”

Although Fareeha had no idea Jesse had a sister—or any living relatives—she does not press; Jesse has certainly never mentioned as much to her _,_ and although Angela is not the type to spill secrets, in general, that does not mean that she might not tell _Fareeha_ something that she would otherwise hide.

“Always on him about the smoking,” Fareeha says with a smile, keeping the conversation in safe territory.

“I haven’t cured cancer,” Angela says, and then, her face more determined “ _Yet._ In the meantime, I’d like for Jesse to stay alive.”

“Yet?”  Angela’s lab work is not terribly frequent, these days, and is always entirely focused on aiding her work in the field, or helping trauma patients.  She has never been in the business of curing things, and admitted to Fareeha, once, that she ha actively avoided pursuing new research following the events of Overwatch’s fall.

“I don’t imagine I’ll be going into the field much when the baby is born,” Angela admits, “You’re going to have been grounded for the entirety of your pregnancy, so you’ll probably want to be back out there quickly—which leaves me here, with the baby.  I’m going to need _something_ to work on during that time.”

“And that something is curing cancer?”  Most people would not refer to such an undertaking as ‘something to work on,’ but, then, her wife is not most people.

“Why not?”  Angela says, “If they don’t want to go into the field—and I hope that they won’t—then it’s one of the things most likely to shorten their lifespan.”

Fareeha does not touch upon Angela not wanting any child of theirs in the field—she understands, of course, that desire, but given her own experiences with her mother it does worry her, and they have talked about it at length already, how far they will go to dissuade their child without alienating them.  Instead she pays attention to the first part of that statement—only Angela would preface a seemingly impossible task with _why not_?

“In that case,” Fareeha says, “We had better talk to Jesse as soon as possible.  The world needs you to go on maternity leave!”

“Maybe give it a few more days?” Angela asks.  “I’d like for us to be very certain what we both mean by this _before_ we talk to him.”

“Of course,” Fareeha says, “We can start wh—”

Loud beeping from one of Angela’s monitors interrupts her, and she looks from it to her wife, worried, only to see that Angela’s expression is rather more exasperated than concerned.

“Reinhardt’s trying to sneak off again,” Angela stands and extends a hand down to Fareeha, “Care to help me force him back into bed?”

“Do I have a choice?”  

“No,” says Angela, already halfway out the door.

Well, Fareeha supposes it _is_ good practice for when their baby is a toddler, if nothing else.

They can talk more later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have some specific thoughts abt why exactly jesse needed angelas medical assistance but this fic isnt rated e so im not going into details... tweet me or dm me on tumblr if u REALLY wanna know....
> 
> speaking of... w the new @, all my info has changed... im @euhemeria on twitter AND tumblr, as well as here. one username everywhere. feels really fucking good
> 
> as always lmk ur thoughts and i hope ur day is great!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well... here it is... the final chapter

After more than twenty years of friendship, one would think that Angela and Jesse would know how to have a serious conversation with one another.  After all, they have been there for each other throughout so many things, have, with the exception of the period at which Overwatch fell, always been able to lend an ear, or shoulder to cry on, at the exact right time, have supported one another through coming out and first kills and loss of faith and sense of self.  Surely, then, they _must_ be able to start a serious discussion, for they have had enough of them.

No. 

In truth, every conversation of any degree of importance Angela and Jesse have ever had has been entirely spontaneous—and that is why they never were able to say goodbye, when the first Overwatch fell.  Both of them felt it coming, and neither knew what to say about it, what to do about the sense of inevitability that had come over the base, and Angela wishes she had done something, now, wishes she had spoken up, but she did not, could not.

And that is okay, because Jesse forgave her that, just as she forgives him for having left, having become just another person who abruptly disappeared from her life.  He came back, after all, and she knows that he will never leave again, not like that. 

Even this, they have not discussed.  They do not need to; both of them know, just as they always seem to, the mysteries of each other’s mind.

While it is all well and good that things are forgiven between them, however, it is not helpful now, when Angela wishes she had even the vaguest idea how to bring up something serious to Jesse.  For once, she does not feel she _cannot,_ for she trusts Jesse with anything, but she does not know the best way to do so, and a proposal like this—she wants to get it right.

Neither of them is good at setting down roots, and while Angela is slowly learning to do so, with Fareeha, she knows that asking this of Jesse, an outright commitment, is a risk.  Certain as she is that Jesse will still be in their lives, eighteen years from now, she knows he feels trapped by commitment, knows that the previous times that he has dedicated himself to something, it has come back to haunt him, knows that he needs to feel free.  To ask him, then, will be a delicate matter, because she does not want him to feel at all as if he is trapping himself, is once again cornering himself, leaving his only out to _run._ It will be a difficult thing, to reassure him that he is the right sort of man for this, that she trusts him not to leave again, without making him feel as if he _must_ stay, as if this were not his choice.

Unfortunately, Fareeha is not very helpful, when Angela asks for suggestions about how to bring this up.  _He’s your best friend_ , Fareeha tells her, and that is true, but it is precisely because he is the sort of person Angela is comfortable being best friends with that serious conversations with him are difficult to begin.  Neither of them likes facing their emotions, if they can avoid it.

But they are getting better at it, slowly, both of them, are trying.  So Angela invites Jesse to dinner.

She is not sure, really, if this is the best way to go about it, but it _seems_ like the responsible adult thing to do, to discuss this after a meal, and it gives her something to do with her hands, her mouth, an excuse to stop talking, if she needs one.

At least it sounds less anxiety-inducing than _Could we talk?_

Fareeha laughs, when Angela tells her that she invited Jesse to have dinner with them, makes some terrible joke about asking him how he takes his eggs, and wanting hers fertilized.  Angela has no response for that, torn between mortification and amusement, other than to insist that it be _her_ who broaches the topic to Jesse.

When the time comes to actually do so, however, she almost wishes she had not.  There they are, the three of them, having made it all the way through dinner without once discussing why it is Jesse was invited, conversation unusually stilted between them by the fact that they all knew that _something_ was coming, although Jesse did not know what.  If it were not for the tension of the moment, Angela might laugh at the scene, all of them fiddling with their silverware, plates nearly empty, Jesse unusually dressed up for some reason, and Fareeha giving her meaningful glances every thirty seconds or so, as if to say _Now?_ The whole experience strongly reminds Angela of all the times she saw Genji and Jesse waiting outside the Commander’s office, slumped in their chairs, about to be in trouble for _something_ or another.

Now, of course, no one is trouble, and she could end this easily, if only she could bring up what it is they came here for.  But how to broach it?  A joke?  An anecdote?  A question about Jesse’s thoughts on parenthood?  None of it seems adequate, and she _had_ a plan, but she finds she has forgotten it, now, and none of the words she is coming up with now seem sufficient, and she goes to start, several times, opens her mouth and then closes it again, abruptly, and she is sure she looks ridiculous, but what else can she do?

She turns to Fareeha, then, pleadingly, as if to say _Can you?,_ but before she can attempt to convey that by jerking her head just so, or have a whispered conversation in the kitchen disguised as grabbing dessert, Jesse breaks the silence for her.

“Can y’all just spit it out?”

“What?” Angela asks, torn from her anxious thoughts rather abruptly.

“Well, either this is the second most awkward threeway invite I’ve ever received, and I know it ain’t,” he sends a reassuring look Fareeha’s way, as he says the second part, “Or y’all have somethin’ else to tell me, and I really don’t have a darn clue what it could be.”

“We’re planning on becoming parents,” Angela tells him, just blurts it out without preamble or qualification, the same way she has confessed so many things to him in her life.

“Congratulations!” says he, as if it were that simple.  “When’s the kid gonna be here?”

“No,” Fareeha says, “No, I’m not pregnant yet.”

“Oh” says Jesse.  “Then I’m not seein’, uh, why y’all asked me here.”

“We were hoping,” Angela says, “That you would be the donor.”

“ _More_ than just a donor,” Fareeha amends.

“Right,” Angela agrees.

“Huh,” says Jesse, before leaning back in his chair and tipping his hat.  There is a period of silence, in which Jesse’s eyes are fixed firmly on the ceiling and not on either of them.  During it, Angela grabs Fareeha’s hand under the table, squeezes reassuringly—or, as reassuringly as she is able, given that she, too, is nervous—and Fareeha gives her a weak smile in response.  This, Angela thinks, is the worst part, the waiting for him to decide.  Right now, all their careful discussion, their planning, their negotiation, it is in someone else’s hands, and they are powerless.  Even if he says no, the next move then, is theirs, to decide whom to ask next, or if they ought to revise their plans, but until he says something, there is nothing for them to do.

“I can’t say I’m not flattered,” Jesse says, finally, looking again at the both of them, before turning his eyes to Angela specifically, “But I’m not sure why y’all, uh, need me.”

How, Angela wonders, could she have been so stupid?  Of course Jesse would ask this; he knows that she is trans, knew her before she ever transitioned.  She should have anticipated this question, should have had an answer prepared, because the truth is—the truth is something she only wants to discuss with her wife, really.  Although Jesse is her best friend, there are some parts of her life that feel too personal, too raw, to expose even to him. 

(Maybe one day they can talk about it, once she has thought more about what it is she wants to say, how much she ought to share, but for now she is taken off guard and—)

“We don’t,” Fareeha says, calmly, stepping up when Angela needs her in the same way that she always does, “But we’ve talked about it, and this is how we want to do this.”

“Okay,” Jesse seems to accept her answer, but the tone of his voice clearly says that he remains curious, and although he will not press, he seems to _want_ to.  “In that case, why _me_?” he runs a hand over his beard as he speaks, “I don’t have the prettiest face on base.”

“Because we trust you,” Angela tells him, “And you fit our other requirements the best of anyone.”

“Oth—” Jesse starts to ask, at the same time Fareeha, too, begins speaking.

 “And Amari genes are strong,” her tone is entirely teasing, “My baby will look like _me_.”

“Thanks,” Jesse says, deadpan, whilst Angela elbows Fareeha under the table.  _No jokes_ , they had agreed.  “But, uh, about those other requirements…”

This part is easier—they rehearsed this, went over with each other all the things they might say, all the questions he might have, all the things they want from a donor, what degree of involvement they might have, and it goes well, or seems to.  Throughout, Jesse asks questions, seems interested, does not balk even when they mention that he would have a degree of involvement in the child’s life, and be a guardian should something happen to the two of them.  In fact, that seems to be a positive for them, and for a moment Angela dares think that everything has gone well, but when they finish, when Fareeha asks him if he has any further questions, what he says is:

“Naw.  I’ll let y’all know if I think of anything else.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Fareeha asks him, and Angela thinks _it must be a yes,_ because he would have said no, surely, if he did not want to do this, would have shut them down half an hour ago, or at least when the matter of potential parental duty came around.

“It’s an ‘I don’t know,’” he tells them, “I need more time t’ think about it.  Reckon I’ve rushed into enough things in life already.”

Angela can hardly fault him for that, but it is still crushing to hear.  With more time, she thinks, Jesse will only talk himself out of it, will think about his record, his own family life, his need to be free, and will decide that he is unsuited, even if he _wants_ to, because that, she knows, is what Jesse has so often done, thrown away things because he thinks himself unworthy.

“Thank y’all for askin’,” he says, as they all rise for the table, “And thanks for dinner.”  He gives Fareeha a pat on the shoulder, then pulls Angela into a little half hug, which she in turn responds too only half-heartedly, “I’ll let y’all know.”

And then he leaves, and they are left to clean up, and to wait.  Earlier, when Angela thought waiting for Jesse to reply to their initial question was the worst part, she was wrong.  _This_ is the worst part.  A yes, she had hoped for, a no, she was prepared for, but a maybe?  What is she to do with that?

Worse still, Fareeha seems very optimistic, thinks that things went well, and Angela does not know how to explain that it is not the sort of person Jesse is, saying _maybe_ and ultimately agreeing.  Much like Fareeha herself, if Jesse is doing to do something, he _does_ it, although his tendency to do so is not an immediate yes ruled by decisiveness but an eventual no born of self-doubt.

But there is nothing they can do about this, as Fareeha points out to her when Angela does bring the matter up, two days later.  All they can do is wait together.

That last part is key, the togetherness.  For the first week, waiting for a reply is very stressful, and the second, it is mildly worrying, but by the third—well, it is nice, Angela thinks, in a way, for things to be out of their hands, now.  For the entirety of this process, they have been going back and forth, have been trying to compromise, or to make their own needs known when the other of them has assumed that her way is what is best, and now, there is none of that.  In waiting, they are united, and things are back to normal, between them. 

On days when one of the other of them is more worried about it, about how much time is wasted in waiting, thinks that perhaps they ought to move on, to give up, to ask someone else, the other is there.  This, they have always been good at, caring for each other.  Doing so has not always been easy, particularly as neither of them is the type who likes to seek reassurance, or help, but they have passed the point, now, of worrying about such things, are able to rely only on one another.

It makes Angela feel better about their prospects, when they finally become parents.  No matter what they face, they will always have each other.  It is a nice relief, too, from the stress of the past few months of their life, last minute wedding planning, adjusting to life as newlyweds, the endless back and forth about parenthood—it is a nice return to normalcy. 

Still, Angela would be lying if she said they did not both perk up, each time one of their communicators buzzed, if she did not have to avoid asking, every time she sees Jesse.  Fareeha, at least, has something to do in the meantime, has begun tracking her cycle, just in case, and Angela—all she has done is told Jesse, five weeks in, to please keep in mind that they would not have asked him, if they did not believe he was the right person for this.

_Alright_ , he told her, drawl changing the _l_ to a _w_ , and nothing more, before their discussion turned again to whether or not he ought to pack a spare serape in ‘fall colors’ for the next mission, just in case.  In case what, neither of them knows.

After such a lull, during which the sunflowers pass out of bloom and fall fully settles in—as much as it can be said to, in Gibraltar—Jesse’s eventual answer _almost_ catches Angela off-guard.

Almost.  Even after six weeks, she cannot help herself hoping, every time she gets a message, that it is from him.  The first few weeks, every time she got a messaged from him, she beckoned Fareeha over excitedly, so that they could read it together, but at some point after the fifth picture of Jesse posing on a mission next to some object he had spotted that was vaguely-phallic shaped, third screenshot of the abs of a man Jesse was currently flirting with, and thirteenth weed related message, Fareeha decided that she really did not want to see anything that Angela had not pre-screened.

So she is alone when she reads it, the message, sent from Kurdistan that says only _I’m in._

_You’re certain?_ She asks him, not wanting to get her hopes up too much.

_Dead sure,_ he replies only seconds later, having evidently been awaiting her reply.  _Should be back in two days.  Talk more then?_

_Yes,_ says Angela, and she does not wait to see the rest of what he might have to say, because this is enough, and she is not going to wait any longer before telling Fareeha, is running across base before she even has time to think about it. 

Fortunately, Fareeha is where Angela expects her to be, is leant over a topographical map in her office, clearly planning for the next mission, and is alone.  If she had been elsewhere, in public, or if she had been holding something delicate, or sitting down, Angela could not have done what it is she does next, run to Fareeha and hug her with such force they _both_ nearly fall to the ground.  The doors to her office having opened gave Fareeha just enough time to turn towards Angela before being embraced, and that is probably the only thing that keeps them upright.

“Wh—” Fareeha starts.

“He said yes!” Angela says, and it is only the fact that she is out of breath that keeps her from shouting.  “ _We’re going to be parents!_ ”

“ _Oh,_ ” Fareeha answers, voice tremulous, and Angela tries to take a half step back, to see her wife’s face, but Fareeha’s grip around her tightens as she pulls Angela in closer.

Beneath the open palm of one of her hands, Angela can feel Fareeha’s heartbeat—strong, and fast, clearly excited—and she thinks, then, about what it will be like for the two of them to listen to another heartbeat in just a few months.  For now, it is just the two of them in the room, alone, but soon it will not be.  Soon they will be three.

“I love you,” Fareeha mumbles into the top of Angela’s head, after having had an additional few moments to process the news.  _I love you,_ and _I love you,_ and _I love you._

Already, as they are, things are perfect, but the future, Angela is certain, will be even better.

“I love you too,” says she, and thinks, _both of you_ , Fareeha and their not-yet baby, who exists already as a person in Angela’s mind.  They do not need to exist, yet, for her love for them to be real, to be meaningful.

This morning, she and Fareeha were a couple, but now they are a _family,_ or will be.  Angela’s first in more than thirty years.

“We’re a family,” she tells Fareeha, and it is true.  Nothing can take that from them now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we go! hopefully u enjoyed this journey of... entirely too many months. and the ending was satisfactory. i may or may not write ACTUAL baby fic one day, but honestly i think this was... enough
> 
> anyway yeah lmk ur thoughts, have a good one, i will continue to write pharmercy content Dont Worry
> 
> <3 <3 <3 rory

**Author's Note:**

> please feel free to leave a comment w ur thoughts--i will love u forever
> 
> also if u have (baby?) name ideas... well im 99% ive picked the name but i would still love suggestions lol


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